


This is Your Song

by HigherMagic



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BDSM, Biting, Blood Kink, Blow Jobs, Bottom Will Graham, Bruises, Cannibalism, Choking, Claws, Creampie, Flogging, M/M, Masks, Muzzle Kink, Muzzles, Prostitution, Psychoanalysis, Sadism, Scent Kink, Secret Identity, Serial Killers, Top Hannibal Lecter, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-03-08 00:31:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 59,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13446696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic
Summary: A criminal profiler with too much empathy. A faceless internet presence writing love letters under the pen name 'S'. An elite escort with an 'arrangement' to service Doctor Hannibal Lecter's needs for companionship at the encouragement of his therapist, Bedelia Du Maurier. The lowest common denominator? The Chesapeake Ripper.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Это твоя песня](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14921915) by [ViEwaz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViEwaz/pseuds/ViEwaz)



> I have no excuse. Title comes from Eminem's song "Castle". It's starting explicit and it's going to snowball from there, so please watch out for new tags/kinks each chapter.

_I built this castle, now we are trapped on the throne. I'm sorry we’re alone._  
I wrote my chapter, you'll turn the page when I'm gone. I hope you’ll sing along.   
This is your song.

Castle - Eminem

~

"It almost sounds like you're trying to refer me to another psychiatrist."

"On the contrary, Hannibal." Bedelia doesn't move. She has learned that any physical change during her sessions with Hannibal is as good as a tell during poker. Her smile remains unchanged. She has a beguiling smile, as attractive and secretive as the Mona Lisa. "I am not suggesting that we end our relationship. Merely that ours should not be the only stable one you have."

Hannibal lets out a soft hum, breaking eye contact with her and setting his gaze somewhere beyond her shoulder. He laces his fingers together and rests them on one knee. "Do you think I am lonely?" he asks her.

Bedelia huffs a short, gentle laugh. "I think you are bored," she replies airily. "And when you are bored…unfortunate things tend to happen."

One of the things Hannibal most likes about Bedelia is that she knows exactly what kind of unfortunate things Hannibal might do in the name of entertainment. Nothing she can convict him with, of course, and nothing that would put either of them in danger of speaking the rude, ugly truth. They move around each other like a mongoose and a cobra, each capable of destroying the other, each avoiding such a clash because they have no other companionship of note.

"So you think I need friends," Hannibal finally says. "I have friends."

Bedelia's smile has returned. She tilts her head just slightly to the left and regards him coolly. "You have playthings, Hannibal," she replies. "And you entertain yourself with them like a cat with a mouse. And when you are done with them, you… _discard_ them. You need someone you cannot discard."

"And who will stop me?" Hannibal asks, smiling. He puts his eyes back to hers and holds her gaze; a challenge. "You?"

"Yes," Bedelia says without pause. She so often mulls over her words before she speaks. A single sentence can take a minute to formulate, grow wings, and fly from between her lips. But this time, conviction brings her speech forward more quickly. "The problem with your methods of entertainment, Hannibal, is that they are fleeting. You can't play with your toys forever. They break, or they run away. You must find someone unbreakable."

"And you believe this person to be unbreakable."

"I know that they are," Bedelia says. "And I think you will find them…very interesting."

Her speech is slower again. She thinks she has Hannibal's interest. And she's right; Hannibal is intrigued by anyone that Bedelia knows and he does not. The fact that she is giving him a glimpse beyond what she deliberately shows him is enthralling. And the idea that she thinks this person is someone that Hannibal will not grow bored of is fascinating.

"I will set up a meeting with them," she says when he gives no answer. "And we will schedule our next appointment for the day after."

"Very well," Hannibal says with a deferential nod. Her smile is wider now. She is pleased at catching Hannibal's attention. Most people are.

~

MORE FROM THE CHESAPEAKE RIPPER'S SECRET ADMIRER.

                YOU heard it here first. The mysterious _S_ has written another poem to the scourge of Baltimore: The Chesapeake Ripper.

                Many of you know his title, and the terrible crimes that have baffled the FBI's brightest and sharpest minds. Since the disappearance of Miriam Lass several years ago, the Ripper has been the top of the BSU's most wanted list, spearheaded by Jack Crawford and his team.

                _S_ made their first debut after the gruesome murder of Jackson Andrews five months ago, writing poems and love letters to the Ripper commending him for his crimes on the dark web. Since then, the identity of _S_ remains unknown, and has left the FBI stumped as _S_ recounts the horrific murders with such intensity and detail, it's almost as if they were there to witness it.

                Below is the latest letter from _S_ to the Ripper. Readers be warned: this work contains graphic and disturbing imagery.

                _I dream about her. I don't know her name, I don't care to know. I dream about how she tastes, how her blood would cake the underside of my nails. I know she fought you. She was a ferocious and headstrong pig, fire in her veins. It adds flavor to the kill. I wanted to touch her. I wanted to feel the life drain from her useless, pathetic body. I wanted to watch you kneel over her as you cut into her and took away everything from her. Did she scream? I'll never know. Do paintings weep when the final brush stroke is placed?_

_I have committed the shape of her broken body to paper. It's been a long time since I wanted to practice my own art. You have inspired me. You will always inspire me. S._

                Is the FBI going to be facing another copycat very soon? No new word on any Ripper-like murders as this mysterious _S_ follows in the footsteps of their idol, but you can rest assured that this reporter will be bringing you all of the details the second they emerge.

Freddie Lounds, journalist for _TattleCrime._

~

Hannibal will admit that, whatever he imagined the person Bedelia had forced him to introduce himself to, this is not what his mind conjured. He is a man, for starters, and while Hannibal has no preference regarding gender, he thinks it strangely assumptive of Bedelia to have gauged that about him.

The man is beautiful. He reminds Hannibal of the statue of David, his face is open and honest, his eyes a lovely shade of blue-green, his hair dark and thick and falling around his face in natural curls. He has a thin layer of hair on his jaw and neck, his shoulders are broad and he has the body of someone in a physical trade.

Hannibal graces him with a smile and allows the man into his study. He did not consent to meet the man in his home, not at first. Not until he is…interested.

The man smiles back at him, off-kilter and just as beguiling as Bedelia's smile, and sets his coat on the back of one of the chairs. Hannibal takes a seat in the other and the man follows suit. For a while, they sit in silence, simply regarding each other. Hannibal gets the impression he's being assessed.

"You'll have to forgive me," Hannibal says, finally, after a long silence where the only thing about the man that moves is his eyes. "I'm not sure of the proper procedure for something like this."

The man smiles.

"How do you know Ms. Du Maurier?"

He greets that question with a slight turn of his head. If Hannibal didn't know any better, he would swear that this man and Bedelia are related. Their mannerisms are similar. Or, of course, the man could very well be an adept chameleon, taking on the persona of the only person he knows Hannibal would recognize as a mutual acquaintance.

"The same way you and I know each other," he says. He has a slight accent – Southern. Louisiana, or perhaps North Carolina. Tamed by Virginian life but still _slightly_ there. "Mutual friends."

Hannibal smiles, somehow pleased by this answer. He folds one leg over the other and rests his hands on his thigh. "What should I call you? It's very rare I meet someone without knowing their name."

The man's eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, showing just enough of his teeth for Hannibal to see they are white and straight. He's healthy, tan on his face and his hands from spending time outside. He's wearing a long-sleeved button-down salmon shirt and black slacks, the top button of the collar open to reveal just enough of his neck to entice.

"You may call me whatever you wish," he replies. "I'm here for you."

That answer is…interesting. Hannibal raises an eyebrow. "What is your name?"

"My name?" the man replies, and gives a self-deprecating shrug. He mimics Hannibal's posture in the same action. "Nothing so interesting as Doctor Hannibal Lecter, I assure you."

"Do you think by playing coy, I will find you more interesting?" Hannibal asks.

"If you weren't already interested, you wouldn't have consented to meet with me," the man replies. Hannibal has to concede that, but he finds the presumptive tone abrasive. It makes him bristle. "You might call me Patroclus, David, Dante…"

"Have you done your research on me?" Hannibal asks.

The man laughs. It's a nice sound, low and raspy. He tilts his head again, turns his gaze away as though taking in the room, and then puts his eyes back on Hannibal. "You see yourself as an object of obsession," Hannibal says.

"Call me Peter," the man says. "The most ardent and loyal follower of Jesus."

"Peter denounces Jesus," Hannibal returns. "Denies his name after his death."

"Are you a religious man?" Peter asks.

Hannibal smiles. "No," he says.

"Perhaps Zama, then," Peter says.

Hannibal lifts his chin, and cannot stop the amused hum he lets out. Zama: the battleground that had given Hannibal the Conqueror his first defeat. "Do you intend on defeating me?"

"I intend to provide you an opportunity to reclaim your namesake, Doctor Lecter," Peter replies. He uncrosses his legs and sits back in his chair, hands spreading out along the thick armrests. "You have that one smudge on your legacy. Wouldn't it be nice to wipe it clean?"

Hannibal regards him for a long moment. There's a brightness in Peter's eyes; he's teasing Hannibal, attempting to get a rise out of him. "You must be very good at reading people, in your line of work," Hannibal says.

"As are you," Peter replies with a nod.

"Tell me, then, what do you make of me?"

Peter cocks his head to one side, his eyes raking Hannibal up and down in a gaze that might be flirtatious, but seems more predatory than that. It reminds Hannibal of how he looks at a dead body, deciding which organs he will take and which he will leave behind.

"You are proud," he finally says, "because you are better. Certainly better than I am, better than your clients, and your friends. Or, those you deign to be in the presence of." He smiles. "I do not intend on defeating you, Doctor Lecter, or even engaging in battle with you. My purpose here is to serve your needs."

Hannibal presses his lips together. "Bedelia has told you about me."

"Not at all," Peter replies, and Hannibal cannot tell if he's lying or not. It is a strange sensation, being unable to decipher Peter's manner. "It is easy to tell when a man wants to be seen. Or a woman."

"Do you 'service' many of each?"

Peter laughs. It's a free and pretty sound. He tilts his head back, exposing his neck, and slumps in the chair with a familiarity and comfort that would bother Hannibal on anyone else. Here it seems natural, like Peter _is_ someone Hannibal is familiar with, and accepts his quirks and personality openly.

"Please, I won't ask about your clients, and you can refrain from asking me about mine." There's an edge to his words, just enough of a threat for Hannibal to sense the wolf in sheep's clothing beneath the surface of his skin.

Bedelia had called Hannibal a monster wearing a person suit. He has the sudden, strange thought that this 'Peter' might be just the same. He cocks his head to one side and takes a deep breath in. Peter's scent is far away, but Hannibal catches traces of his aftershave.

"I apologize," he finally says, and Peter accepts it with a forgiving nod. He smiles again and sits forward so that he is perched on the edge of his chair, like a falcon waiting for the right time to swoop down and spear an unsuspecting field mouse in his talons. It has been a long time since Hannibal felt close to a prey animal, and he refuses to do so now. He meets Peter's gaze steadily.

The silence between them is loaded, but not uncomfortable. It has been a while since Hannibal has been in the presence of someone sitting in a chair across from him who didn't feel compelled to babble on incessantly.

"Ms. Du Maurier seems to think I am in need of companionship," Hannibal finally says, clearing his throat. Peter smiles at him, showing his teeth again.

He spreads his hands out to either side of him, elbows resting on his knees. "I am at your beck and call," he replies.

"Is that so?"

"Yes." He holds Hannibal's gaze without challenge, but also without fear. Hannibal gets the impression that, until he realizes otherwise, Peter feels like he has been in worse company. He doesn't fear Hannibal, and whether that is because he is ignoring the prey-animal part of his brain, or simply doesn’t have one, Hannibal finds himself curious to find out.

He uncrosses his legs and sits forward, mirroring Peter's position. The chairs are close enough that either of them could reach forward and touch the other. Peter's eyes drop to his chest, to the spread of Hannibal's slacks over his thighs, and then rise up. He smiles again, lopsided and sly.

"Would you like me to show you?" he asks.

He doesn't wait for Hannibal to answer, but slides to his knees in a movement as graceful as it is brazen. Hannibal is used to those he mingles with thrusting their daughters in front of him, desperate to catch his attention, and none of them have proven as captivating as the sight of Peter on his knees, his large hands coming a rest on Hannibal's and spreading out wide.

Hannibal reaches forward and catches Peter by the throat, lifting his face. He is even more beautiful up close, each imperfection – though they are few – makes him look rugged and wild. There's a scratch on his cheek and a mark on his forehead, and when Hannibal forces his head to one side, he sees evidence of small scratches and marks on his throat as well.

"I'll be clean-shaven next time," Peter murmurs. His voice has gotten lower, seductive and growling and Hannibal swallows.

"What makes you think I'd prefer that?" he asks. His hand seems to sit perfectly, the dip of Peter's throat cradles the meat of his thumb like a mother with her child, and Hannibal's fingertips perfectly match the flex of Peter's tendons. His palm sits against the rise of his Adam's apple.

Peter smiles and Hannibal allows him to straighten up. One of Peter's hands slides up his thigh, flattens over the bulge of his hardening cock. "Men of your stature go for the throat," he purrs, his eyes heavy-lidded and darker now, storm-blue instead of the icy shade they were before. "Bare necks are a mark of youth and innocence. And, pardon my assumption, you seem like the kind of man who likes to use his teeth."

He's not wrong. His eyes, it seems, take in everything. Hannibal lets go of his neck and sits back, allowing Peter the room he needs to turn his hands to the button and zip of Hannibal's suit pants. He undoes each deftly, and pulls Hannibal's cock free with a warm touch. There are calluses on his hands but his mouth is soft.

He holds eye contact until the angle forces him to bow his head, as reverent as a supplicant in church. Hannibal remembers seeing worshippers in his favorite chapel in Florence, and none of them would have prepared him for the perverse veneration with which Peter swallows him down.

His mouth is warm and wet and Hannibal can't help the low growl he lets out, one of his hands curling in Peter's thick hair and fisting tight as Peter takes all of his cock into his mouth. His hands are flat on Hannibal's thighs, holding him up as he sucks, his mouth tight and hot and incredibly good on Hannibal's sensitive flesh.

He's neat about it, keeping his saliva in his mouth lest he stain Hannibal's slacks, and his tongue curls deftly under the head of Hannibal's cock as he pulls his head back, sinking down in a slow rhythm. It's cruel, almost, how harshly Peter sucks on his cock combined with the skilled movements of his tongue. Clearly he has become a master at this, and Hannibal feels a strange sense of aggravation and pleasure as he wonders just how many other men he has 'serviced' in this way.

For a long while, the only sounds are the delicate sucks Peter gives to the head of his cock, and the soft swallows he makes when he takes Hannibal all the way back into his mouth. Hannibal's hand remains tight in his hair, but doesn't pull. He enjoys the flush of red on Peter's cheeks, the way it's spreading down his neck as he works Hannibal closer and closer to orgasm.

Hannibal's breath catches and he tugs on Peter's hair when he feels his orgasm approaching. Peter tilts his head, raises his eyes, but doesn't pull back. He keeps his hands flat on Hannibal's thighs as Hannibal grunts, upper lip curling back, and releases into his mouth. Peter swallows it all, his tongue running through Hannibal's slit to taste everything. When Hannibal is done, his flesh too sensitive to touch, he releases Peter's hair and Peter sits back.

The only tell that he's affected is the slight gasp he gives and the way his eyelids flutter closed as he swallows what remains in his mouth. Hannibal desperately wants to feel his pulse, so he catches Peter's throat again and feels him swallow. His heart is racing, steady and hard against Hannibal's fingers.

He lifts his gaze, meets Hannibal's for a long moment. He smiles, and his lips are the same dark red as rare meat, the pink on his cheeks betraying a finer cut. He lifts one hand from Hannibal's thigh and wipes at the corner of his mouth with his thumb.

Then, he ducks his head and Hannibal lets his neck go. He gently coaxes Hannibal's soft cock back into his underwear and zips up and re-buttons his slacks. Then, he pushes himself back to perch on the edge of the chair. He looks pleased, his pupil wide in his eye, and wipes the corner of his mouth again.

It is not a gesture to rid himself of evidence. Rather, Hannibal gets the impression that he is desperate for another taste, and wants to catch all of it that he can from his bruised lips.

Hannibal swallows, trying to calm his own ragged breath and hammering heart. He understands the physiological effects of an orgasm, he knows his skin is flushed and hot, his stomach tight with desire. He crosses one leg over the other again and rests his hands on his knee, smoothing out the wrinkles from Peter's grip.

Peter's eyes follow the action, and he smiles again. His jaws are parted like he's scenting the air. "You have a remarkable presence, Doctor Lecter," he says, and the sound of his voice, raw and abused, makes Hannibal's stomach tighten again.

"Please," he says. "I think we're on a first-name basis now."

Peter's smile widens. He stands and Hannibal follows suit, allowing Peter to grab his coat and don it, and walks him to the door. He turns before he leaves and hands Hannibal a plain white card. It only has a phone number on it. "Please don't hesitate to reach out to me…if you still find me interesting," he says, the coy and teasing tone back to his voice.

Hannibal takes the card. "Goodnight, Peter."

"Goodnight, Hannibal," Peter says, and then he leaves. Hannibal returns to his chair, his eyes on the indent in the opposite chair from where Peter sat. His mind is at once buzzing and completely still.

…Very interesting, indeed.

~

Hannibal's thoughts are consumed by Peter, that nameless and yet-named man, for the rest of the night. That is, until Jack Crawford visits his study and asks him for help with a psychological profile the next day. He is told of Will Graham, a man whose empathy rivals the most revered of Saints and Martyrs, and he finds himself in Jack's office when the man introduces them.

He turns in his seat and finds himself meeting those same ice-green-blue eyes. They're downcast, now, hidden behind glasses. His demeanor is so different, and yet Hannibal cannot deny that he is gazing on the face of none other than Peter.

Not Peter. _Will_.

Will doesn't meet his eyes. He is almost squirrelly, fully entrenched in his sheep-clothes person-suit. Hannibal sees nothing of the man who not even twenty-four hours ago was on his knees in his study, coy and brazen and so very _interesting_.

Hannibal swallows as Will takes a seat next to him. He's wearing a too-large sweater to hide the strength in his arms and shoulders, and has it pulled up tight to his throat. He has his eyes set squarely on Jack's nameplate, his jaw clenched. He hasn't shaved, not like Peter promised he would. Hannibal swallows back the absurd desire to ask if Will has a twin.

He takes a breath, and smells Peter's aftershave. No, not a twin.

"Tell me, then, how many confessions?" he asks, since Jack asked him to assist with a profile and Hannibal is here to oblige. It would be rude to interrogate Will about his recreational activities, especially when Will seems so intent on not meeting his gaze.

"Twelve dozen, the last time I checked," Jack replies, drawing his attention back. "None of them had any details until this morning. And then they all had details. Some genius in Duluth PD took a photograph of Elise Nichols’ body with his cell phone, shared it with his friends, and then Freddie Lounds posted it on _TattleCrime_."

Will makes a disgusted noise. "Tasteless," he says.

Hannibal regards him with a raised eyebrow. Will slants his gaze Hannibal's way, as though nervous, and curls his shoulders up to hide his neck. "Do you have trouble with taste?"

Will grimaces, but it looks like it's meant to be a smile. "My thoughts are often not tasty," he replies.

"Nor mine," Hannibal replies. "No effective barriers."

"I build forts," Will says.

"Associations come quickly."

"So do forts."

Does Bedelia know that Will Graham and Peter are the same person? How bold of her to throw into Hannibal's path the man who might have the means and the eyes to catch the Ripper. What a curious plaything he has come across.

He cocks his head to one side and Will shifts his weight. If there is no prey instinct in Peter, it is certainly present in Will. "Not a fan of eye contact, are you?"

Will shakes his head. "Eyes are distracting," he spits out. "You see too much, don’t see enough. And – and it’s hard to focus when you’re thinking..." He finally turns, meets Hannibal's eyes. There's no spark of recognition there, either hiding it or not there at all. Will, it seems, is able to completely shut down anything that might give him away to third parties. "“Oh, those whites are really white”, or, “He must have hepatitis”, or, “Oh, is that a burst vein?”." Hannibal smiles and Will hesitates, ducking his gaze again. Hannibal wonders what he might have done if Hannibal had submitted to his desires to hold Will's neck so hard it bruised. "So, yeah, I try to avoid eyes whenever possible," he finishes, clearing his throat.

Hannibal hums, straightening up, but he doesn't take his eyes from Will's face. "I imagine what you see and learn touches everything else in your mind. Your values and decency are present yet shocked at your associations, appalled at your dreams. No forts in the bone arena of your skull for things you love."

At that, Hannibal sees a flash of Peter in Will's eyes. It's a feral look, gone as quickly as it had come, and he glares between Hannibal and Jack.

"Whose profile are you working on?" he says, voice high and offended, and then to Jack; "Whose profile is he working on?"

Hannibal spreads his hands out in a gesture of helplessness. "I'm sorry, Will," he says, and pauses on the name. "Observing is what we do. I can’t shut mine off any more than you can shut yours off."

Will's upper lip curls back. His eyes flash and darken, and he growls in Hannibal's direction. He's on edge, a rabid dog with a too-tight leash. "Please," he says, holding up a hand. "Don't psychoanalyze me. You won’t like me when I’m psychoanalyzed."

"Will," Jack says. A warning. Hannibal can _see_ the leash tightening.

Will stands. "Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go give a lecture on psychoanalyzing." He leaves without a second glance, bristling and raw and so very _interesting._

Jack clears his throat and gives Hannibal a look equal parts apologetic and tense. "Maybe…we shouldn't poke him like that, Doctor. Perhaps a less, ah, direct approach."

Hannibal sits back, smiling. "What he has is pure empathy," he says, and suddenly Peter's observations and knowledge make a lot more sense. "He can assume your point of view, or mine, and maybe some other points of view that scare him. It’s an uncomfortable gift, Jack." Jack hums. "Perception is a tool that’s pointed on both ends." He pauses, looking over his shoulder at the open door. "This cannibal you have him getting to know…. I think I can help good Will see his face."

~

The next morning, before his appointment with Bedelia, Hannibal calls the number on Peter's card.

"Doctor Lecter?" It's Will's voice, but Peter's tone. Soft and alluring. Hannibal is momentarily taken off-guard. But, of course, he should have known better. Clearly, whatever it is Will is doing, whatever games he likes to play, he has been a master at it for a long time.

Hannibal pauses. "You knew it was me," he says.

"I don't give my card out to just anyone," Will replies. Hannibal can hear the smile in his voice. What an entertaining mouse he has caught between his claws. Or he will, eventually. Will might be good at playing with a two-faced coin but Hannibal has been at this game for far longer. Of that, he is absolutely assured.

"I hope to honor your offer," Hannibal says. After all, now that he knows _Will Graham_ , perhaps Peter will hide away out of a sense of self-preservation.

Will hums. "At your beck and call?" he asks.

"Yes."

"I can come see you tonight," he says, and Hannibal moves to his notebook to write in his name. He hesitates for a moment, and leaves it at _Peter_ for now. "I'm so happy you find me interesting, Doctor Lecter. Does the same time work for you?"

"Yes, it does."

"Excellent."

~

_I think, if I were to ever die, I would want it by your hands. I want to give you everything. My life. My soul. My adoration is already yours. Happy hunting. S._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, folks! I had a really bad stomach bug this week. And I apologize for giving the impression I wasn't going to be continuing this fic actively - I certainly am!
> 
> Here's the thing. The reaction to the first chapter was so AMAZING, I'm so incredibly grateful, I really really want to do this fic justice. Hannibal is the first fandom where I proofread and actively change/add things, because I want the subtleties to be organic, the dialogue engaging. I just want it to be half as good as the show. So it takes time, but it's worth it, and I'm loving writing for Hannibal so far.
> 
> On a tangent, I don't know why I'm creating this weird psuedo-songfic format. I have a playlist for this fic and sometimes lyrics just hit ya, man, I don't know.
> 
> Enjoy!

Some days I can't get out of my head. That's just the dark side of me.  
Some nights, it's hard for me to fall asleep. That's just the dark side of me.  
If you ever, ever call my name, you will find out that we're both the same.  
When the lights go out, I need to know:  
Are you afraid of the dark?  
I'm not afraid of the dark.

Darkside – Ty Dolla $ign & Future (feat. Kiiara)

~

"How do you like the toy I gave you, Hannibal?"

Hannibal regards Bedelia coolly. Her Mona Lisa smile is gone – on her face is something much sharper, self-satisfied. She delights in having caught his attention and enjoys even more so that, when Hannibal gets bored, it's not going to be her neck on the line. Bedelia lives a life of almosts and every day is an _almost_ with the losing result being her meat on the Ripper's chopping block.

Still, he smiles. "He is a peculiar creature," he says, because that much is true and he has no issue admitting it.

Bedelia hums. "Do you find him…interesting?"

Hannibal purses his lips and takes a deep breath in through his nose, his eyes on the window over her shoulder. "I have seen a great many things in my lifetime," he says. "And I will say he has…piqued my curiosity. For the moment, that is all I can yield."

"I'll take it," Bedelia says, smiling. Each interaction a war, a foot of ground given or taken away. Hannibal meets her gaze again. "I hope you find satisfaction with your new companion, Hannibal. Please, take care not to discard him too quickly. Gems like him are hard to find twice."

Hannibal nods. Yes, he can scarcely imagine there being two people like Will Graham in the world. It would all go up in flames and be put out by blood.

~

_I dreamed about you last night. I don't even know what you look like, but in my dream you were…beautiful. I think, the way I felt, was how…_

_Forgive me. I'm barely awake and writing this. I confess I feel somewhat shaken._

_In my dream, you took my heart. You opened my ribs and ate it raw. I bled and shook but did not die. Your hands had claws, and when they touched my neck I felt them cutting into me. I screamed, but not out of fear. I was in ecstasy and you drank the noise from my mouth._

_When I woke, I was covered in sweat and…_

_And._

_I know you are resting. I know that your belly is full and your hunger sated for now, and I will wait patiently for the return of my artist, my inspiration. But with me, you wouldn't have to curb your cravings and rein in your needs. I will give you everything, again and again and again until there is nothing left of me._

_I love you. And I will love you past the moment my soul and my body sit in your belly._

_Happy hunting. S._

~

ANOTHER CHILLING LETTER FOLLOWS IN THE WAKE OF HORRIFIC RIPPER MURDERS.

                READERS, be warned that it seems the mysterious _S_ has gotten more brazen – and evocative – with their love letters to the Ripper. Doing her due diligence, this reporter contacted the Behavioral Science Unit's lead investigator, Jack Crawford, for his remarks on the matter.

                "This 'S' is just a poser," Crawford had to say. "I'll pay attention when he's the one committing the crimes."

                Bold words from the director of the FBI's BSU. Accompanying him was Will Graham, an oddity amongst misfits. You've read about him before from me, dear readers. Mr. Graham seemed overly hostile today – when questioned, he said, and I quote: "Miss Lounds, it's not very smart to piss off a guy who thinks about killing people for a living."

                The FBI's cavalier attitude towards _S_ is, I fear, the beginning of the end for everyone involved. With love letters and declarations of a following going unchecked by the FBI, how long until the Ripper has a cult of loyal fans desperate to recreate his crimes? Will Baltimore soon see a wave of serial killer sprees as _S_ and those they know gain confidence?

                Whatever this bloody tidal wave brings, you can rest assured I will be the first to let you know the truth.

Freddie Lounds, journalist for _TattleCrime_.

~

Hannibal lifts his head at the sound of a soft, polite knock on his door. He clears his throat, knowing without checking his appointment book that it's _Peter_. He stands, straightening his tie and his pen, and walks over to the door and opens it.

It is definitely Peter that greets him on the other side of the door. Any fidgeting or nervousness his alternate possesses is completely gone, replaced with the same calm, inviting, and altogether very _interesting_ man that Hannibal had first met.

Hannibal steps back and motions to the chair he reserves for patients, and Peter smiles and heads to it as he did before, setting his coat against the back and taking a seat. Hannibal sits across from him, his folded hands resting on one knee, legs crossed.

He regards Peter, and Peter meets his eyes steadily. They're a darker shade today, greener than they were before. He has shaved his face as he said he would, and his skin is pale from the cold outside but quickly turning pink in the comfortable heat of Hannibal's office. His throat is bare, begging for Hannibal's touch, his chin and cheeks smooth now. He looks decadent.

After Will had left Jack's office and Hannibal had offered his help, Jack had all but ordered that Will be placed under Hannibal's psychiatric care. This is…a complicated, interesting situation. Hannibal is sure Will knows – but will Peter acknowledge it?

Finally, he clears his throat. Peter blinks and smiles, showing his teeth. "I confess I don't know what to call you, now," Hannibal finally says.

Peter spreads his hands out wide in a gesture of welcome and amicable nature, but Hannibal feels like he's being mocked from when he made that same gesture to Will in Jack's office. "You may call me whatever you like," he says.

"Will, then?"

"Ah." Peter sits forward, one elbow resting on his knee, first finger extended, the rest curled. A plea for silence. "If I am Will, you are Doctor Lecter. My psychiatrist." Not _Hannibal_. Already, far too soon, Peter understands the power of names." That is how the world knows me, and that is who I must be, if that's my name."

Hannibal cocks his head to one side. "These personas you wear are…suits. Costumes. No two are alike?"

Peter smiles, his teeth shining, and he sits back and flattens his hands across the wide armrests. "That would get awfully boring, if they were," he says.

"Might I ask how many you have?"

Peter shrugs one shoulder, clucking his tongue at the side of his mouth. He rubs his thumb against the corner of his lips like he can still taste Hannibal on his tongue. "Right now? Five," he replies, and his smile widens. "Including Will."

"I imagine it gets tiring," Hannibal says.

"Does what you do ever get tiring?"

"Sometimes," Hannibal says, looking down and smoothing out an imaginary wrinkle. He sighs and puts his eyes back on Peter's face. Without his beard, he looks much younger, much more innocent. He'd been right – Hannibal is the kind of man to appreciate this particular brand of beauty. He looks as submissive and sweet as the portrait of Adam and God, their fingers almost touching between the vast expanse of the cosmos.

Peter hums, his eyes going heavy-lidded, and he sits forward and puts both elbows on his knees. "Would you like me to help?" he murmurs.

Hannibal raises an eyebrow. "Are you going to go to your knees for me every time we meet?"

"If that's what you want me to do," Peter replies, his smile widening. "But…" His eyes rake Hannibal up and down, darker and green enough to compliment the forest-canopy green of his button-down shirt. "That wasn't what I had in mind. Nor, I think, what you did either."

"Frankly I'm not certain what I expected," Hannibal says. "But now I understand. How I am to act around each of your counterparts, once I get to know them."

Peter grins. He's on the edge of his seat, like each of Hannibal's words is the most riveting tale he has ever been told. "Do you think you'll unwrap all of my secrets, Hannibal?" he murmurs, his voice a low purr.

"I don't think I have a choice," Hannibal replies. And it is true – now that he understands more about this man, this beautiful and interesting creature that crawled so willingly into his lair, he knows he has no choice but to dissect him and take him apart until he knows every tic, every trick, and everything that makes him break. It's a sudden and compulsive urge, and he straightens up with it.

Will Graham has to be his real name. Working with the FBI, with background checks and everything else, that has to be the original name. But the original nature? Hannibal is desperate to find out.

Peter's eyes flash. His smile is gorgeous, wide, and sharp. His eyes dart away, then back to Hannibal's face. "I see four options here."

"I counted five."

"Two chairs?"

"A mirror, a reflection, does not actually make the room larger."

Peter smiles. "If I were to reflect you, I think you'd conquer the world," he says. Then he slides his hands along his knees and pushes himself to his feet. Hannibal sits back, watching him as he puts his hands in his pockets and walks slowly to the couch. "One," he says, nudging it with his knee. He looks to Hannibal, who nods. He smiles and nods to the chairs. "Two."

Hannibal smiles back, nodding again. Peter's eyes flash around the room, darting along the upper levels and finding nothing there. His gaze lands on the desk and he nods to it. "Three." Hannibal hums. "Then the floor. Four."

"I counted five," Hannibal repeats.

"But you don't see the chairs as two?"

"No," Hannibal says. Peter bites his lower lip, brow furrowing in thought, and does another slow pivot, his sharp eyes taking in every piece of furniture, open area, or other possible scene for their pending 'session'.

His eyes stop, sharpen, and he smiles slowly. He slides his hands out of his pockets and walks behind Hannibal's chair. Hannibal doesn't watch him go, but smiles down at his feet when he hears the ladder, wheels rolling smoothly. He lifts his head and turns to see Peter with his back against the slant of the ladder, his hands wrapped tight around the thick wooden sides at hip level.

Peter lets out a soft breath and raises his eyes. "Five," he says, and sounds pleased.

Hannibal stands and crosses to where the ladder is, slowly. Peter doesn't move, and he meets Hannibal's gaze readily, a stag that has made eye contact with a wolf and daring it to come closer. Soon Hannibal is close enough to see the marks on his neck again. Without his beard they're more apparent – thin, tiny lines just visible around the collar of his shirt.

Hannibal succumbs to his desire to touch Peter's neck, at that moment. He slides his fingers along Peter's skin, spreads them out wide once the saddle of his thumb sits below his Adam's apple. Peter shivers, letting go of the ladder, his lips parting as Hannibal steps closer. Hannibal can smell something sweet between his lips, like wine or cyanide, and he lifts his eyes, meets Peter's, and then leans in to taste.

He feels Peter's soft moan against his hand when their lips touch. It's chaste at first, no more passionate than a bride and groom whose marriage was arranged and whose wedding night will be watched by aging, male family members. Then, Peter closes his eyes, and one of his hands rests on Hannibal's chest, fingers curling, and he arches closer. He throws himself against Hannibal's chokehold and Hannibal's body with a desperation so raw and genuine that Hannibal cannot help answering in kind.

He closes the rest of the space between them, wrapping his free hand on the ladder rung above Peter's head, and squeezes his throat when he kisses him again. Peter moans more loudly, his voice strained, and he slides his other hand underneath Hannibal's suit jacket and fists it in his waistcoat.

He puts one foot on the bottom rung of the ladder and spreads his legs, allowing Hannibal's weight between his thighs, and the shivery, needy whine he lets out when Hannibal digs his nails around the tendons in his neck is practically obscene.

Hannibal pulls back to watch Peter's eyelids flutter, his pink lips parted and gasping as he tries to catch a desperate snap of air. He opens his eyes, the pupil in them almost completely overpowering the iris, and swallows hard enough that Hannibal feels the pressure of it against his hand.

"You're…" He clears his throat and Hannibal lets his neck go. His hand leaves a pink mark on Peter's neck and he immediately wants to sink his teeth into the stain his thumb left behind. "You're making me want to do some very unrefined things."

Hannibal smiles. His mouth is pleasantly warm from Peter's lips, and he finds the thought of kissing him again very satisfying. Peter knows he doesn't want coy, he doesn't want desperate – there is enough of that in the social circle in which he navigates. He shows just enough affection to keep him engaging, enough desperation to create the illusion of control, and just enough desire to make him interesting.

"What unrefined things might those be?" Hannibal asks. He has his hand flat on Peter's collarbones, able to feel the hard line of them against his palm and measure Peter's hammering heartbeat. This, at least, he cannot fake.

Peter swallows. His hands are warm, callused from Will's gun, and Lord knows what else his other 'clients' have him do. Hannibal feels a snarl of possessiveness in the pit of his stomach and slides his hand back up, claiming Peter's throat and forcing his head back.

Peter gasps, his upturned eyes staring into Hannibal's like he's a starving animal and Hannibal is offering the first scrap of food he's seen in days. "The kind of – things men shouldn't ask for," he finally says, and Hannibal doesn't know how he can manage to at once sound so unsteady and firm at the same time.

Hannibal smiles, his eyes dipping to the slip of Peter's tongue when he licks his lower lip. "Do you think I would give them to you?" he asks. Peter's pulse is thrumming against his hand, as delicate as a butterfly's wing.

"…Yes," Peter says, swallowing back a needy sound when Hannibal tightens his hand in answer. "If I begged."

Hannibal's mouth twitches at the corner. He presses his lips together to hide it, but he knows Peter saw. The familiar, feral glint in his eye gives him away. Hannibal lets go of the ladder and fists his hand in Peter's thick hair, letting go of his throat so that he can grab his shoulder and turn him around.

Peter's chest hits the ladder and his hands fly up to grab the sides, fingers curling tight enough that his knuckles whiten. His forehead rests against one of the ladder rungs and he slides his thigh around one of the sides, the move as well-practiced as it might have been had he been doing this all his life.

Hannibal presses himself flat to Peter's back, pushing his hair up to expose the back of his neck, and he bares his teeth against Peter's nape. The scent of Peter's aftershave is almost mild in comparison to the cinnamon-sweet, mint-sharpness of his skin. He smells at once clean and wild, feral and _refined_. He breathes deeply and Peter reaches back, arm folded over his head, and his fingers catch in Hannibal's hair.

Hannibal slides his other hand to a rest on Peter's stomach, which is tense under his touch. He idly thinks about the spice of his skin seasoning his meat, thinks about flavoring bacon from Peter's stomach with onions and red chilis.

"The next time we meet will be in my home," he says, growling the words into Peter's ear. Peter's body jerks with a sharp, high-pitched inhale and he turns his head, shows Hannibal the whorish red on his cheek, lets the taste of his jaw settle against Hannibal's teeth. "There, I can provide you all these 'unrefined' things."

Peter shivers, bites his lower lip, and covers Hannibal's hand with his own, off-kilter, thumb tucked around Hannibal's palm and _very_ subtly coaxing Hannibal's hand lower. "Thank you," he breathes, and it sounds like gratitude but feels like a concession – as though in indulging his own desires, Hannibal is dancing precisely in step with Peter's musical score.

It makes him want to claw at the man, tear him apart until there is no more power in him than that of a fledgling sparrow. He parts his jaws and bites down on the back of Peter's neck and Peter moans, and it's a noise as raw and effective as a she wolf in heat. It feels like a mating call, and slides down Hannibal's spine in lines of desire, from the light tug of Peter's hand in his hair.

Peter lets go of his head and places both hands on the ladder, breathing hard, caught between Hannibal's teeth and the hand still on the very lowest part of his stomach. Hannibal can feel Peter's cock, the bulge of it just shy of his fingertips. He wants to touch it, but _Peter_ wants him to touch it, so he holds himself back.

Unless Peter wants him to be selfish, brutal – the conqueror he so accurately compared Hannibal to. Hannibal snarls and turns his fingers to Peter's belt. The leather is soft and the buckle yields for him as eagerly as its master, the belt slipping in half to hang on either side of Peter's thighs. The button and zip barely maintain their integrity, and Hannibal hears the soft, breathy exhale Peter gives when his skin is exposed to the air and he shivers in pleasure.

There is something incredibly decadent about portions. Every nutritionist, diet-fanatic, or purveyor of mind-altering chemicals will speak of portion control. With Peter's slacks and underwear around his thighs, the amount of skin that is exposed is hardly enough on its own to tantalize, and Hannibal has certainly seen more on a single person. But it feels so hard-won, so soft and warm under his hands. It feels like Hannibal could feast on Peter's thighs for days, suckle at the fine drops beading at the head of his cock, and gorge himself on the sweat from his skin until the end of time and never grow tired of it.

And with such a small amount exposed.

The length of his shirt provides some modesty, but not much. Hannibal pulls back, admiring the red mark on Peter's neck, and eyes the tan line from swimsuits gone by, the delicate shadow of dark hair on his legs, the… _tremble_ , of fine-cut and strong muscles when he cups his hands under Peter's ass and encourages him to mount the ladder more sturdily, so that neither of them will fall.

Peter obeys the command with a helpless whimper. His head hangs on the downside of the ladder like a man in the stocks, his shoulders are heaving and rolling, like he's trying to desperately seek touch or pressure against them. One of his feet has still managed to keep itself flat on the ground, maintaining his balance, the other heel braced so that he can keep his leg wrapped around the side of the ladder.

It should look ridiculous, but Hannibal is quickly beginning to realize that Peter can make anything look exactly how he intends it to look. And Hannibal is reminded, very suddenly, of the Shrike. He has Peter, speared in place and waiting to be consumed.

He steps closer again, allows a brief moment of indulgence for Peter to feel how heavy his influence sits on Hannibal, his cock hard and tenting the front of his suit pants. Peter hums and the sound of him licking his lips is loud.

Hannibal slides his hands upward, mapping the distance between his hipbones and the tendons in his thighs, the softer skin that gives to hair – well-trimmed, but still there, and coarse and musky. Just enough to remind someone that they're touching a man, as if everything else wasn't enough proof.

Hannibal drags his fingers between Peter's legs, curls all but two, slides them behind his balls and -.

Peter gasps, moaning when Hannibal finds the slick of lube already present. He cocks his head curiously, spreading Peter apart with his other hand, and sees that his hole is shining with it. He's clean and smooth here, as vulnerable and open as Hannibal can possibly make him.

"Do you always prepare yourself for your clients?" he asks, and wonders when in _Will's_ schedule – or any of the others' – Peter made time for this.

Peter lets out a soft, growling laugh. "For the sake of professionalism," he replies. He sounds far more put together than Hannibal expected, the thin veneer of laminate hiding the structural flaws in the wood.

Hannibal hums. "I think I would prefer to do this part myself," he says, taking one finger away and gathering up a tiny glob of excess lube on his fingertip, before he pushes it against Peter's hole and watches it sink inside.

Peter groans, his head hanging down again, shoulders tightening. "I'll remember that," he replies, fracturing from the bottom of his neck. Hannibal sinks his finger in more deeply, curling it down. He is a master of the human body, and knows where each nerve hides, each point where blood gushes, and every pressure point and sensitive spot a human can possibly have.

As a result, he finds Peter's easily.

Peter is soft and burning hot on the inside, and when Hannibal finds his prostate and brushes against it, he goes tense and flinches hard enough that the ladder creaks. Hannibal smiles, feeling cruel, and does it again, harder this time.

He's sweating, and the scent of him is strong enough that Hannibal knows he'll be able to smell him for days. It's a good thing he didn't pick the chairs – knowing he had taken Peter in the same place his patients sit would surely drive him to distraction.

Peter lets out another sound – punched from him, clawed from his gut. "Hannibal, _please_ ," he says, his nails digging into whatever parts of the ladder they can reach.

…No, not the chairs. But the ladder certainly won't do, either.

He pulls his finger out and grabs Peter by the hair, forcing him back and away from the ladder. Peter stumbles, coltish and disheveled from Hannibal's influence, his eyes almost entirely black. He shakes in Hannibal's hold, and his entire weight is suspended like a puppet on a string. Hannibal knows that if he were to let go, Peter would drop to his knees without hesitation.

He jerks his head when Peter meets his eyes. "Brace yourself there," he says. Peter's eyes follow his to the edge of his desk, which has nothing on it aside from his appointment book. For the briefest second, Peter's smile turns coy and pleased, but then he nods and Hannibal lets him go, and he puts his elbows and forearms against the desk and stands ready.

He is breathtaking. Hannibal admires him for a moment, takes the time to memorize the perfect dip in his lower back, wonder how he is both hard angles and unbroken curves. He desperately wants to see Peter bare for him, stripped of all humanity and veneer. He wants to know, _needs_ to know, what remains of the man when there is nothing at all for him to mirror.

He wants to know what Will was like, before he started acquiring these person suits.

It will be bloody, and messy, but he will do it.

He approaches Peter and takes him by his hips, slides his hands up his back and under his shirt to force the garment away from his heat. Then he unbuttons and unzips his own clothing and pulls his cock free. His body suffers the same impatience of his mind, and although he can overpower one with the other, Peter offers satisfaction for both.

He doesn't ask if Peter is ready, because he knows what the answer will be regardless of the truth. He tightens his fingers under the bulging, red head of his cock, and lines it up with Peter's hole, his other hand tight on the man's hip to keep him from moving away.

As predicted, he meets resistance. But only for a second. Peter hisses, bows his head, brings his hands together like a close-fisted prayer, and allows Hannibal to invade his body, pierce his flesh, and sink into him.

"Ah, _fuck_ ," Peter grits, and Hannibal can hear his teeth grinding together, feel the way his trembling body rattles his desk and makes one of his pens roll against the other. He swallows back a smug hum, enthralled with the way Peter's body graciously, ravenously accepts his cock. Peter's hands flatten on his desk, sweat smearing the wood, and pushes back so that he takes all of Hannibal in one smooth thrust.

Hannibal drags his nails across Peter's exposed skin, raising red lines in their wake. Peter trembles, breathing hard, and clenches up around him in answer. "Does it feel good?" Hannibal asks, not out of any particular concern – Peter practically reeks of pleasure, the chemicals in his brain and his blood lit up. Hannibal could almost call it ecstasy. He is not unaffected himself. His body aches to move, to use Peter's generously offered body as a tool to sate the lizard-brain desire to breed and dominate.

He hears Peter swallow, and wonders what he might say. Some meaningless platitude? Fool's gold flattery? A lie?

Peter turns his head so that Hannibal can see the side of his face – the curl of sweat-dark hair at his temple, the corner of his bitten-red mouth, the sharp corner of his pretty, strong jaw. "Yes," he whispers, confession-quiet. "But it's too easy."

"Would you rather I hurt you?" Hannibal asks. The very idea causes his stomach to clench with impatience. He knows, when Peter is foolish and trusting enough to enter his home, Hannibal will be able to subject him to all manner of cruelty for the sake of their arrangement, but to think that Peter actually wants it is…

Interesting.

Peter swallows and doesn't answer. He pushes himself up and Hannibal growls, digging his nails in. But Peter fights him, pushes him back and Hannibal grabs him by the nape of the neck and slams him back down, forcing him to stay still. It's a game, but Hannibal isn't sure who's making the rules, or who's winning.

He pulls back and thrusts in again, deep and piercing and Peter trembles, biting his lower lip and shifting his weight. He shoves his slacks down to his ankles and lifts one knee against the edge of the desk.

He tries again, and with more freedom comes more leverage, room to move. Peter turns around, and Hannibal has to pull out but he won't let Peter gain the advantage. He pins Peter to the edge of the desk and grabs his hair, kisses him harsh enough that he tastes blood. He grabs the underside of Peter's thighs, hears something rip.

He has Peter's forehead pressed against his, their eyes locked, his cock rutting mindlessly against Peter's. Peter's slacks have torn, giving him room to spread his thighs around Hannibal's hips. Peter's nails are tightly embedded in Hannibal's shoulders, and he holds Hannibal like he has a boa constrictor by the jaws and can't afford to give an inch.

Peter's eyes drop, rise again. Back to his mouth, he licks his lower lip that is so red it has to be cut somewhere, his chin ducks. He lets out a sweet little sigh, slides a hand to cradle the back of Hannibal's skull, and draws him into another kiss.

Hannibal kisses him back, thirsty for the flavor of Peter's blood in his mouth. This, at least, will not change, no matter what clothes he wears or name he responds to. He tastes rich, the darkest piece of chocolate and the reddest and sweetest wine. Hannibal is surprised by the moan he lets out and Peter pulls back, his eyes flashing.

He bites his lower lip and reaches down, wrapping his fingers around Hannibal's cock, and leans back enough that the angle works for taking Hannibal back into his body. Hannibal's hand flies to his nape, holding tight as he sinks into Peter, and he doesn't blink until he's all the way inside, until he feels the soft flesh of Peter's thighs touch his hipbones.

Peter shivers, his eyelids fluttering, lips parting and begging for his kiss, and Hannibal obliges. His other hand is wrapped roughly around the top of Peter's thigh and one of Peter's hands goes back, braces himself against the desk as Hannibal starts to move in earnest.

The taste of iron in Peter's mouth has incensed him. Blood is not sexual to him, his meat and his kills don't arouse him, but Peter does. Peter can make anything look however he desires it to look.

He is an _artist_.

Hannibal's orgasm rivals the thunder of a stampede, the relief of a thoroughbred leaping from the starting gate, the thrill of victory when one lion kills another for their pride. He finishes inside of Peter, neither asking if he shouldn't nor told he couldn't. Peter kisses him when he does, sensing the point of no return the second it is passed, when Hannibal's jaw clenches and his eyes close and he drinks the soft, satisfied sound from Hannibal's mouth like a sinner drinks Communion wine.

Hannibal lets go of his thigh and takes his handkerchief from his pocket, wrapping it in his hand and then around Peter's cock. Peter shivers, his inhale unsteady and his sweaty forehead resting on Hannibal's shoulder as he growls, moans, tenses up in Hannibal's arms, and soon Hannibal feels the warm mess of his release stain the cloth.

He pulls out and Peter stands quickly, pulling his underwear up so that he doesn't leave a stain. Or at least, more of a stain. There is an impressive smear on Hannibal's desk, and both of their clothes are dark with sweat.

He pulls his slacks up and Hannibal sees that the rip was, indeed, Peter's clothing seams tearing. "I apologize," he says, nodding to the tease of Peter's thigh where it's showing through the hole. The seam had torn from knee to knee on the inside of his slacks.

Peter offers him a smile. His eyes are bright, glowing almost like he's high. He wipes his thumb across the corner of his mouth. "I'm street legal, and the walk to my car isn't far. I'll be fine."

"I may have a spare pair of pants here, if you'd like."

"Please." Peter raises a hand, his smile turning sharp. "I can't allow that." Hannibal cocks his head to one side. "Some of my clients get…possessive." Hannibal raises his eyebrows. The mark of his teeth on Peter's neck is very prominent. Peter notices. "A different kind of possessiveness."

"I confess my ignorance," Hannibal says, and wonders if Peter knows that Hannibal is just as inclined to such behavior. It is perhaps for Hannibal's sake he mentions it at all.

Peter hums, his smile softening to something like affection. "You're not ignorant," he says. Then he runs his hands through his hair, stretches his arms above his head, and relaxes with a heavy sigh. Hannibal busies himself with tucking his softened cock away and carefully folding his handkerchief so that nothing leaks out. He will need to wash it later.

He can smell Peter on his fingers. "I'll cook for you, next time we see each other," he says. Peter regards him, head tilted. "It is no embellishment to say I'm very good at it."

"Next time we see each other," Peter replies. "Not next time we meet."

Hannibal looks up. Peter's face is as open as ever, but there's steel in his words. Something very defensive and _Will_ -like about them. "It would be naïve to think that either of us have control over when we might cross paths again," Hannibal says lightly, setting his folded handkerchief down. "If we are both called to the same place by a third party, for instance."

"You're very determined," Peter says. He's smiling. "Like a dog with a bone."

"Dogs can be trained," Hannibal says.

Peter laughs – it's the same low, happy one he made the first time they met. He leans against Hannibal's desk and rests his hands against the edge, fingers curling. " _Anyone_ can be trained," he replies. "Death, taxes, psychological manipulation…"

"Tell me, then, who do you think is being trained, here?"

Peter's smile widens, sharpens, and he leans a little to one side. His demeanor is flirtatious, the same way fate flirts with coincidence. "I think…" He lets the word hang, Bedelia-like to a fault, and shows his teeth. "The one who is feeling the most pleasure, the one in the greatest ecstasy, the one who feels like he has the most control…that's the one who's losing."

Hannibal meets Peter's gaze, but he gets the impression, subtle but there like hairs standing up on the back of his neck, that he's not looking at Peter, but someone else entirely. "I thought you said you didn't want to battle with me," he says.

"I don't," Peter replies, straightening up. "You started it."

"It is hard to compare someone's experience of pleasure," Hannibal says, watching as Peter grabs his coat and shrugs it on. "As with pain." Peter doesn't answer for a moment, his eyes caught on Hannibal's appointment book. Hannibal approaches him and comes to a stop a step away and Peter raises his eyes. "Do you like it when strangers touch you, and mark you, and think they're in control?"

Peter huffs a laugh, his eyes flashing with mirth. "Oh, I have been waiting a _very_ long time for someone like you," he says.

Hannibal doesn't know what to say to that. It sounds like one of those meaningless, fake platitudes people say when they sense danger and need to make a quick getaway, but Peter isn't running away. He steps closer, slides his hand up Hannibal's chest, and rests it just shy of the knot of his tie. He leans in and Hannibal ducks his head down, and Peter kisses him. It's deep, passionate, greedy, gluttonous – sinful words rush around Hannibal's head and he cups Peter's skull, holds him close, until Peter pulls away.

"Call me when you're making dinner," he says, smiling.

Hannibal smiles back. "I will."

Peter's eyes rake over his face again, a slow zigzag as lazy as sunbeams crawling across carpet. Then, he blinks, and swallows, and he goes to the door. Hannibal lets him out and closes it behind him. The room stinks of sweat, but he doesn't have any patients until Monday.

His eyes fall to the folded handkerchief. Another indulgence. He smiles.


	3. Chapter 3

_If they find you, I will protect you. I will protect you._  
Just tell me, tell me, tell me, I - I am the only one.   
Even if it's not true.  
'Cause you're the last of a dying breed. Write our names in the wet concrete.  
I wonder if your therapist knows everything about me.  
I'm here in search of your glory.

The Last of the Real Ones – Fall Out Boy

~

The next time Hannibal finds himself in the company of his new favorite plaything, he is speaking to Will. Will has come for one of his mandated psychiatric sessions. Hannibal can see the difference in him easily, like he's wearing a new set of clothes. Indeed, Will dresses differently than Peter does. He does not dress to entice, although Hannibal is sure that Peter's dress code is only worn to lure a very specific type of prey.

He wears thick sweaters and collared shirts pulled up tight to shield his neck. Not to hide marks, Hannibal is sure Will wouldn't mind them being on show, but because he wears his clothes like a shield to hide everything. There's dog hair on his sleeves and his hair is tousled from the wind, his cheeks pink.

"Tell me about your dreams, Will," Hannibal says.

Will lifts his eyes, darts them away. He can't hold eye contact like Peter does. It's a strange feeling of stasis and movement all at once – Will doesn't have to pretend when it's just the two of them. Surely his body remembers the feeling of Hannibal's desk under his hands, knows what it feels like to be on his knees in this very room, but he acts as though he's never been here in his life.

Will huffs, cracks a weak smile that's nothing like Peter's, and clenches his jaw. His fingers spread out over the armrest of one of Hannibal's chairs, and then curl up like he's trying to hold a mouse under his palm. Like he's trying to resist crushing it.

"I dream of…a stag," he says, the words coming out of him like they're forced. He swallows and rolls his head, looking the other way. His eyes land on Hannibal's appointment book and there isn't a single flicker of recognition there. "And blood."

"The Ripper?" Hannibal asks. "Or Garrett Jacob Hobbs?"

"Sometimes they're one and the same," Will replies. He rights his jaw, traps his tongue between his teeth and lets out a pained-sounding growl. Hannibal tries not to be offended at the comparison. "I don't sleep much anymore."

"You have gotten into the mind of Garrett Jacob Hobbs," Hannibal says, "and now he lingers, even after death. Why do you think that is?"

"I could have helped her," Will hisses.

Abigail Hobbs. Hannibal cocks his head to one side. "You see her as a surrogate daughter."

Will hums, baring the edges of his teeth just enough for Hannibal to see them line up, before his jaws part and he settles. "I feel…protective of her," he says, and Hannibal nods. "Jack thinks she helped her father kill those girls."

"What do you think?" Hannibal asks.

"I think…that it's very easy to love a killer," Will replies, and lifts his gaze again. He holds it, and Hannibal thinks he might see a flash of Peter in them, before the gaze is gone and Will sighs, looking down again. "He was her father, and she loved him. Even after everything, he was a good father to her. I believe that."

"You believe it because you want to believe that you are the same," Hannibal says. Will looks at him, brow furrowed. "You do not want to see yourself as a killer, or a murderer, but as a father who is loving and caring for his daughter. It's honorable."

"I think Garrett Jacob Hobbs thought the same way," Will replies. "Honor. Loyalty. Family. And now a dozen people are dead."

"More have died for less," Hannibal replies.

The way Will looks at him, a slow once-over, reminds Hannibal of a starving animal. Will is famished by his life, starved of touch, of connection – and, Hannibal suspects, genuine emotion. He spends so long mirroring and reflecting others that there is nothing for himself. This Will Graham person suit is not the original one, Hannibal decides in that moment.

He will need to identify the other three.

~

After a while, it becomes impossible to ignore the feeling of eyes on the back of his neck. Hannibal turns his head to one side, his attention drawn from the soprano's high note, to see Franklyn staring at him with barely contained eagerness.

He puts his sights back on the singer, and closes his eyes, allowing the swell of the music to overcome him. Her song makes him think of Florence, the pain in her voice, her rapturous tremor, makes him think of Peter and how he'd smiled when Hannibal took him by the throat and drank the sweet moans from his mouth.

When the note dies, Hannibal stands, applauding. Then the crowds part and he is quickly intercepted by Mrs. Komeda. She has a glass of champagne in her hand and a wide, gummy smile on her face. He smiles at her.

"It's been too long since you've properly cooked for us, Hannibal," she declares by way of introduction, garnering a nod of appreciation from the little flock she constantly trails along after her.

Hannibal's smile widens. "Come over and I shall cook for you," he says. He is overdue for feasting with the cultural elite, whom he would call his friends. Bedelia would call them playthings. She wouldn't be wrong to do so. Even the greatest men find pleasure in sycophants.

She scoffs and lays a hand on his arm. "I said _properly_. Means dinner and the show. Have you seen him cook?" she asks, turning her attention to the man currently attached to her side, who is easily two decades younger and wears his suit with the same grace as a stuffed turkey. "It’s an entire performance. He used to throw such exquisite dinner parties." She looks at Hannibal again and hums, taking a sip of her drink. "You heard me. _Used to._ "

Hannibal allows her a teasing, warm smile. "I will again," he assures her, "once inspiration strikes. I cannot force a feast. A feast must present itself."

"It's a dinner party, Hannibal, not a unicorn."

"But the feast is life," Hannibal says. He becomes aware of a shadow at his side and looks to see Franklyn at his elbow, bobbing in place and beaming like an engorged jack o lantern, frozen in a wide and welcoming smile. At his side is a tall man, with dark eyes and dark skin. And next to the man…

Hannibal blinks. It's Will. But it is not Will.

It's not Peter, either.

His eyes are not on Hannibal, but on Mrs. Komeda. It appears they know each other, because Mrs. Komeda greets him with a warm smile, color coming to her pallid cheeks. Perhaps not friends, but acquaintances. Hannibal can smell the tease of feminine pheromones in the air.

"…You put the life in your belly and you live," he finishes, but Mrs. Komeda's attention is not on him anymore. She is smiling at not-Will, and holds out a hand for him to shake.

"Pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Komeda," he says, his voice low and affectionate. Flirtatious, almost, and with an accent Hannibal does not recognize as either Will or Peter's. He speaks like one of the finest bluebloods, and raises her gloved hand to kiss her knuckles. Her blush darkens.

"And you, Charles," she says.

…Interesting.

She lets out a warm laugh, her fingers curling when Charles lets her hand go. "Hannibal, I believe that this young man is trying to get your attention," she says, one eyebrow arching at the lack of decorum currently surrounding Franklyn's demeanor. He's twitching like a Labrador puppy about to pee on the carpet, completely at odds with his silent friend and Charles.

Hannibal forces a smile and reaches out to shake Franklyn's hand. "Hello," he says.

"Hi!" Franklyn replies, taking Hannibal's hand in both of his and shaking vigorously. Hannibal resists the urge to wipe his hand when he lets go. "Nice to see you. These are my friends, Tobias and Charles. Well, Tobias is my friend. Charles is his."

Hannibal raises an eyebrow, catching the edge of jealousy thinly-veiled in Franklyn's voice. He nods to Tobias, who returns it, and then his eyes go to Charles. Charles meets his gaze steadily, no smile on his face but no frown either. He stands close to Tobias' side, but not in the same way Franklyn does. It is not a desperate, possessive stance, but rather one of authority. He stands close to Tobias as a mark of ownership, and Tobias allows it.

Hannibal meets Tobias' gaze again. "Good evening," he says.

"How do you two know each other?" Mrs. Komeda asks. Her tone is thick with distaste over Franklyn's presence, much like the icy venom in Will's voice when he speaks of Jack.

Hannibal smiles. "There should remain some mystery to my life outside the opera."

At that, Charles lets out a hum. "Mystery and shame go hand in hand," he says, and Hannibal sees a flicker of emotion finally cross Tobias' face. It's a smile, warming his cheeks as he looks down at Charles. He places a hand on Charles' back and Hannibal swallows back the red flare of jealousy. He is above such emotions. And, after all, he does not know Charles.

He's dressed well, his hair combed and slicked back, his cheeks dark with an artful five o'clock shadow. The back of his neck is covered with his collar but Hannibal can see the upward curve of the mark of his teeth. He wonders if Tobias gets to see Charles the way Hannibal sees Peter, if Charles bares his body and offers up his neck.

"I'm one of his patients," Franklyn says, breaking Hannibal's perusal of Will's newest person suit. He sighs through his nose.

"Did you enjoy the performance?" he asks, his eyes on Charles.

Charles regards him coolly, a flicker of a Peter-like smile on his face.

"I loved it," Franklyn says before he can speak, if he intended to reply at all. "Every minute."

Hannibal resists the urge to show his teeth at Franklyn. Here is Will, another facet of him, bared for Hannibal to inspect and peruse, and this aggravating little man keeps interrupting. He accepts the loss, however – he certainly cannot speak freely within their current party.

"Don’t say too much. You must leave something for us to discuss next week," he says, good-natured but firm. "Franklyn, good to see you. Tobias, Charles, a pleasure."

He shakes their hands in turn.

Tobias smiles and puts his hand on Charles again. "We must go," he says, and Charles nods, another smile gracing his face that looks anticipatory. They leave, and Hannibal watches them go. His fingers are warm from Charles' touch.

He turns back to see Mrs. Komeda and her flock regarding him expectantly. "Who's hungry?" he jokes, and they laugh the same way sheep do on their way to the slaughter.

~

"Son of a bitch," Jack growls, wiping his gloved hand over his face. "He took her heart."

The sight in front of Hannibal is truly a spectacle, if Hannibal does say so himself. It's nothing he hasn't seen before, since he was in this exact spot mere hours ago, creating his newest display.

He looks upon the sight with fondness, and Jack makes another aggravated sound.

"It's the Ripper," he says.

Well, he supposes that much is obvious.

The room is clear. There's just Jack, Hannibal, and Will remaining. Will is standing, looking at the sight, his eyes tracing back and forth like he's wiping away each layer of blood, each mar on her body, each bruise and cut until there's just the woman, dead and pale and kneeling in front of the altar.

"I take her here to feel closer to God," Will whispers, stepping forward. His gloved hands run over her mouth like a lover, and he leans in, almost to kiss her. He hesitates a second away, gazing into her milky, staring eyes. "She is my…disciple. She loves me. I can see that she loves me, even in death."

He draws back and digs his thumbs into either side of the cuts on her mouth. Her jaws had been parted to mimic those of a snake, wide in an eternal scream, her head tilted up and her tongue lolling to one side like a panting dog.

He slides his hands down her throat, cups it for a brief moment. Hannibal cannot see his face, and then Will straightens up.

"I tie ropes around her neck and her chest, nailing her down to the floor so that she can't move. I cut her mouth to hear her screaming. She's praying, she's praying to me, begging me to stop. She thinks I'll spare her life if she begs just right."

He steps back, and gasps, falling to his knees. His hands are starting to tremble and he puts them on the jutting edges of her ribcage, which have been cut and wrenched open to expose the place where her heart should have been. Right now it's in Hannibal's stock room, along with her stomach, liver, and intestines, in preparation for his dinner party this weekend.

"I rip open her ribcage with my bare hands," he says. "This is my gift to her. She wants to give me her heart, so I take it. I'll consume it, just as she wants me to. I'll -."

He gasps again, stumbles back abruptly, and lands on his ass in a chaotic sprawl like he'd been pushed. He stares up at her, breathing hard, shaking. Hannibal hears him let out a desperate-sounding, needy whine.

"She wanted to give me everything. Her soul. And I took her gift like a God takes his servant's offering." His voice is weak, and he closes his eyes. "This is my design."

"Will?" Jack asks, stepping forward, and Hannibal follows. Will curls up on himself, his bloody gloves leaving smears on his skin. Red is a beautiful color, complimentary to most people, but on Will it looks positively _natural_ , like the color was made just for him to wear on his skin.

His cheeks are wet with tears and when he looks up, his eyes shielded and glazed, he looks like a man who has just fallen in love.

"He heard," he whispers.

"Who heard?" Jack demands.

Will's breath leaves him in an unsteady, wretched gasp. He's smiling, though, a picture of painful rapture.

"Freddie Lounds wrote an article about someone who has been writing love letters to the Ripper," Hannibal notes, looking up at the corpse. He feels Jack's eyes turn to him. "In one of his letters, he painted a picture of the Ripper eating his heart."

Jack blinks at him, then his dark gaze goes to the woman. "And so this is…what? The Ripper's love note back?"

Will looks up, between the two of them. His face is shining with sweat and it's staining his clothes. Hannibal wants to taste where it's beading on his throat. "A wolf howls for her mate," he whispers. "What choice does he have but to run to her?"

"You believe the Ripper is trying to contact 'S'," Jack growls.

"He's finally found someone who interests him," Hannibal murmurs.

Will's eyes flash to him, defensive and a dark green. "Find 'S', and she'll lead you to the Ripper," he says, thick and angry. Hannibal cannot possibly imagine why he's angry. Does the sight disgust him so much?

Will pushes himself to his feet and wipes his forearm across his face, smearing the blood and sweat there. He's breathing hard, as breathlessly devastated as Peter had been after Hannibal used his body and coaxed his release out of him.

"You believe 'S' is a woman," Hannibal notes, eyebrows raised.

"I don't know," Will says, his voice catching, hands shaking. He sounds helpless. "I don't know."

"Perhaps it is time we paid Miss Lounds a visit," Hannibal says mildly, straightening up. Jack looks at him, eyebrow raised. "She will no doubt be able to shed some light on the matter."

~

RIPPER'S FAITHFUL FOLLOWER ENRAGED BY NEW MURDER AT BALTIMORE OPERA HOUSE

                READERS, this story has truly begun to get meatier and grittier. As you no doubt know, the Chesapeake Ripper has begun to capture attention beyond scared civilians in their beds and the fruitless searches of the FBI. _S_ , the killer's most avid and adoring fan, has written another letter on the dark web.

                But that isn't the most interesting part of this, dear readers. It appears that the murder of Archer Vance, a trombone player for the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra who made headlines in his debut as human cello, has incensed _S_ to write a letter not of love, but of wrath. I have posted it for you below;

_How fucking dare you._

_You betrayed me. You agreed to never make it public. You promised._

_Now I'm going to have to kill you._

_S._

                Has their love for the Ripper turned cold? I went to FBI BSU Director Jack Crawford with this post and he had this to say: "The murder of Mr. Vance was a tragedy, but I have it under authority that this was not done by the Chesapeake Ripper. It's a copycat, and a sloppy one. We have a lead. I'll say nothing more on the matter."

                I have no doubt that this "authority" is Mr. Will Graham, criminal profiler for the FBI. Already his wild goose chases have cost the life of one innocent man. How many more will suffer before the Ripper is brought to justice?

                Rest assured, dear readers, I have made it my top priority to find out the identity of _S_. I am sure this will be what brings down the whole bloody orchestra.

Freddie Lounds, journalist for _TattleCrime_.

~

Peter arrives at Hannibal's house, precisely at the appointed time. He's clean-shaven again, much to Hannibal's delight, and smiles when Hannibal takes his coat and hangs it for him, before directing him to the dining room.

There are two place settings, one at the head of the table, and a space at Hannibal's left side for Peter. Peter takes his seat. Hannibal pours him a glass of wine and Peter watches him do it, before he goes to his kitchen and grabs the two plates, bringing them back to the dining room.

"Tonight we'll be having pork loin with a Cumberland sauce of red fruits," he says, placing Peter's plate down first and turning it so the meat is closest to him. He sets his own plate down and takes a seat.

"The color is very rich," Peter murmurs appreciatively, taking up his knife and fork.

Hannibal smiles. "I was inspired," he replies. Very specifically, by the pretty smear of red on Will's face from the day before. "A pig is a simple, yet versatile animal."

Peter hums, sliding the first bite into his mouth. The sounds turns into a much more pleasured moan, and he closes his eyes and slides the fork from between his lips, chewing and savoring the bite before he swallows.

Hannibal watches him eat, entranced by the way Peter's throat and jaw moves when he eats and swallows. He holds the utensils strangely, cupping the fork and knife close to the saddle of his thumb and the necks of the knife and fork held between his knuckles, as though his fingertips are too sensitive to hold anything. Hannibal cocks his head to one side when he sees evidence of small welts on Peter's fingers.

He debates asking about them, and wonders if Peter would even tell him.

"You are a very good cook," Peter says before he takes his second bite. Hannibal smiles – this, he knows, at least, is a genuine compliment. People rave about his food. He hums and swallows back laughter at the thought of how they would react to knowing _what_ , exactly, he feeds them. "This might be the first home-cooked meal I've had in years, and certainly the best."

"I'm very careful about what I put in my body," Hannibal murmurs, taking his own first bite. The sauce is rich and tart, complimenting the pork wonderfully. "I learned the art long ago, before my time in America."

"Have you considered turning it into your work?" Peter asks.

Hannibal raises his eyes, seeing Peter regarding him. His face is as open an honest as always, so different from Charles' cool indifference and Will's closed-off, defensive behavior. His eyes are grey-blue, gorgeous and bright. "I believe one's passions should never be the way one makes money," he says mildly, and Peter smiles slyly, turning his attention down to his plate.

"You judge my lifestyle," he says, but it's not angry.

"I'm merely trying to understand it," Hannibal replies with a small shrug. "I'm hardly a man to judge another for doing what he needs to survive."

"And that's what you believe I do? Survive? That I take no pleasure in my work?" Peter sets his knife down and cups the wine glass. His fingertips press flat against the condensing glass as though needing it to soothe.

"If you took no pleasure in it, I doubt you would do it so well," Hannibal replies. He cuts himself another bite of pork and eats it, washing it down with wine.

Peter smiles. "A harsh word and a compliment to follow," he says mildly, humming into his next bite. His fingers curl around his utensils lightly. "You're the kind of man to keep his friends on hooks, desperately reaching for each next kind word."

"And you give your friends exactly what they believe they want, without limit, knowing they will never be satisfied." Peter's smile widens. "You ought to be careful with how eagerly you cater to your friends. Affection can quickly turn to obsession."

"Is that what you're afraid of, Hannibal?" Peter asks. "Consuming me?"

"On the contrary, I find the idea delightful."

Peter's eyes flash, and he sets his utensils down, his plate half-cleaned. He looks around Hannibal's dining room with a carefully cultivated air of polite interest, and his eyes stop on the painting of _Leda and the Swan_ above Hannibal's fireplace, framed by horns. "Perversion in the name of art," he murmurs, cocking his head to one side.

Hannibal follows his gaze. "Do you know the story behind the painting?" he asks.

Peter nods. "The God Zeus took the form of the swan to seduce and breed with Leda, a human woman," he replies. Hannibal lets out a pleased hum. "Zeus took many forms. A bull. A bag of coins. A woman's husband." He huffs a small, self-deprecating laugh. "I find a likeness in that."

"Yes, you possess a remarkable ability to adapt," Hannibal replies mildly.

"You refer to the Opera."

"I was surprised to see you."

"Pleased?" Peter asks. His voice has gotten soft, the same way he asks 'Would you like me to help?' and 'Would you like me to show you?'. He bites his lower lip when Hannibal meets his eyes.

Hannibal smiles. "Yes," he says. "I only wish the company had been better."

"Tobias is teaching me how to play the violin," Peter says.

Hannibal raises an eyebrow. "So he is not a client?"

Peter smiles, lop-sided and coy. "I didn't say that."

"I was under the impression that your other clients were not an allowed topic of conversation."

"Circumstances have…changed," Peter says. There's a sudden edge to his voice, a flint-strike of anger that Hannibal remembers seeing in Will. Whatever has happened, whatever Peter – or Charles – has done or feels for Tobias, he clearly feels less than loyal to the man in this instant. Perhaps it is a ploy, fostering Hannibal's affection and making it appear that Peter is the most loyal and doting of friends, that Hannibal need not feel jealous or afraid.

But Hannibal senses there is another reason behind the anger entirely. Every one of Peter's moves is calculated to a fine point. He is an artist, and with every word comes another brush stroke on the canvas.

"Is that why your fingers hurt?" Hannibal asks, nodding to the way Peter's hand is curled lightly around the stem of his wineglass, tracing the curve of it like the cheek of a beloved child.

Peter smiles. "Tobias believes in authenticity," he says. "He imports catgut strings from Italy, and they are difficult to play on." Then, he sucks in a breath and lifts his eyes. "Do you know the story of Scheherazade?"

" _Arabian Nights_ ," Hannibal replies with a nod. "A story every night to save her life while her husband fell in love with her."

"Be it a story, or a song, any beast can be tamed if you provide it enough entertainment."

Hannibal smiles. "Are you afraid for your neck, Peter?"

Peter hums quietly, his lips twitching at the corners, and he shows his teeth in his next smile. "Do you think Leda was afraid?" he murmurs, quiet enough that Hannibal has to lean close to hear him. He can smell the tart red sauce on Peter's lips, the hint of his aftershave, the lemongrass tang of shampoo in his hair. "When she felt Zeus come to her, when he pushed between her legs and ravished her, do you think she was afraid?"

Hannibal swallows. "No," he replies. "I think she was in ecstasy."

Peter lifts the wine glass and takes a long sip, baring his neck to Hannibal's ravenous gaze. "How unrefined," he says with a light gasp when he sets the glass back down.

It's a challenge, a dare – a she wolf howling for her mate. Hannibal has always enjoyed the hunt, but he savors even more the knowledge of certainty when it overcomes his prey. When the tears and the screams turn to whimpers, to cries, to quiet and desperate pleas.

"Finish your dinner," Hannibal says, turning his attention back to his own plate. "Then we shall we what we can find you in the way of entertainment."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, quick note. The things Hannibal does to Will (Peter) in this chapter, I've had done to me, as the recipient. So I can't promise the reactions are universal and the descriptions and whatever else, but I can say it's been tried and tested by yours truly.
> 
> On ANOTHER note, I don't bring up safewords because the personalities of these guys don't really...allow for that. But you should always check with your partner if what you're doing is okay. This isn't a 'grit your teeth and bear it' kinda thing. SSC all the way.
> 
> Enjoy!

_It’s a game, you’ve been played. It’s a flock, you’re the sheep._  
It’s a pied-piper song that has lulled you to sleep.  
It’s a lie and you fell for it - hook, line, and sinker. A hand that you shook that then gave you the finger.  
A fraud and a fake, a cowardly king, a lie to your face, but you still kiss the ring.  
This is the breakdown.

Welcome to the Breakdown – Rise Against

~

"In the world of creative endeavors, there is a constant discussion concerning the responsibility of the audience, and the moral intention of the artist."

Peter raises an eyebrow and cocks his head to one side. He looks at Hannibal over the rim of his port glass, and then lowers his eyes and takes a sip. The sound of his throat working to swallow is deafening, the silence between them heavy like a prowling tiger, low in the grass, golden eyes glowing and fixed on its prey.

"Do you believe intention means all that much?" Peter asks, his tongue curling out to catch the aftertaste of the port on his lower lip. "I could say something insulting, and no matter how I meant it, it is the reaction that carries on the rest of the conversation." He smiles. "Or ends it."

"You want to believe the power lies in the recipient because without it, you are in a much more vulnerable position than you'd want."

Peter lets out a rough, low laugh. His smile makes his eyes crinkle, the picture of carefree mirth. He reminds Hannibal of a forest nymph; vulnerable, coyly spread open and full of joy. There's a flush on his cheeks from the wine and the port, but his words aren't slurring. Even under the influence of alcohol, his eyes and his tongue are as sharp as ever.

"Do I make you feel vulnerable, Hannibal?" he asks.

"Not the word I would use," Hannibal replies, for he cannot admit that Peter doesn't make him feel _anything_. The man is a master of evoking powerful emotion and attachment, of that Hannibal has no doubt. "Merely, I feel as though I am trying to reach for something suspended over a great pit."

"Oh! Icarus, then," Peter says, his smile widening. He sits slouched on Hannibal's dark brown leather couch, one ankle folded over his other knee, his elbow on the armrest and cradling the port glass, the picture of languishing beauty. His other hand sits on his raised thigh, his thumb absently tracing the fold of his slacks where it sits behind his knee. "You think I would let you?"

"Let me what?" Hannibal asks.

"Do you think…I would foster such a dependence with you, that you would come into harm's way because of our friendship?" Peter asks, and for a moment his manner is so much like Bedelia that Hannibal has to consider how many alternate meanings each word might have. Peter has moments where he reflects Bedelia so well, the idea that they might be related or come from the same origin has struck him many times. He always discounts it, seeing too much lack of similar features to consider it possible, but then Peter speaks like she does, mimics her call like a mockingbird, and he feels a strange sense of displacement overcome him.

"I don't think you would," Hannibal finally says. "But you're not the only one I'm contending with."

Peter hums, the noise turning into a small laugh, and he takes another drink. "You refer to my…what did you call them? Person suits?"

Hannibal nods. "I don't think they're separate personalities. You don't suffer from dissociative identity disorder, or multiple personality disorder. Or even, I suspect, schizophrenia. Instead you change from one persona to another, like I might change into and out of a set of clothes." Peter doesn't answer. His smile is still there, faded and indulgent.

"Does it bother you?" he finally asks.

"Everyone is guilty of adapting their personalities to fit the room," Hannibal says. "I do it myself."

Peter laughs. "That's not what I asked," he says, and Hannibal smiles. He wonders, if Peter is a moth in the web of a spider, if he's aware that he's trapped, or if he feels like he can still escape. There's no prey instinct in Peter, not like there is in Will, nothing to raise the hair on the back of his neck or make him feel uncomfortable holding Hannibal's gaze. It is like every piece of his brain has a switch, and he can flick them on and off at will.

"We are not permitted to talk about your clients," Hannibal says, and Peter's eyes flash and he nods. "Are we allowed to talk about your suits?"

"One provokes the other," Peter says. The corners of his mouth twitch like he's fighting the urge to smile. In the soft glow of lamplight in Hannibal's study, his eyes are green and dark.

Hannibal blinks at him. "Does the suit create the client, or the other way around?"

Peter smiles, showing the edges of his teeth, and takes another drink. He turns his head to do it, baring the pretty expanse of his neck to Hannibal's gaze. He finishes his drink with a sigh and sets the empty glass down. He doesn't ask for more and Hannibal doesn't offer.

"An interesting 'Chicken and Egg' concept," he says, lifting his head so he can regard Hannibal again. He's sitting on the couch opposite Peter, no farther apart than they'd be sitting in his study, but the space is quiet and dark and he knows Peter's belly is full of the food and drink Hannibal provided, the scent of his home is in Peter's lungs, and there is nothing on Peter's mind except the immediate responsibility of being in Hannibal's home. "Did I meet my first client and create a person suit just for them, only to grow bored and find another client so I could be someone else? Or, to continue the metaphor, one day I was all dressed up and had nowhere to go."

Hannibal smiles, humming. "We are compelled as humans to find likeness in each other," he says, sitting forward so that he can put his elbows on his knees. Peter smiles and mimics him, folding his fingers together and curling them under his chin to support his head. "You can find likeness in anyone. How do you pick and choose?"

Peter's smile widens to a sly grin. "You're asking about my selection process," he says.

"Yes."

Peter hums, his eyes going heavy-lidded. He sucks in a slow breath through his nose, watching Hannibal all the while, and presses his lips together when he exhales. "What if I told you I didn't have one?"

"I'd call you a liar," Hannibal replies mildly.

"We are no more in control of our destinies than we are the rotation of the Earth, or the movement of the stars. I could crash my car tomorrow and find another client in the EMT who rescued me. I could service a woman working the register at a grocery store."

"That speaks to an unfortunate lack of control," Hannibal murmurs. He remembers Peter saying he had five person suits, but that doesn't necessarily correlate to the number of clients he has. Hannibal shifts his weight and drops his eyes, uncomfortable for a reason he can't quite explain at the thought of so many people putting their hands on Peter. On _Will_.

Peter huffs. "If I might paraphrase a mutual friend of ours," he says, and Hannibal looks up; "when a she wolf calls for her mate, he has no choice but to run to her."

"Will," Hannibal breathes, and Peter's smile widens.

"My existence is purely reactionary, Hannibal," he says. "You called for me, and so I came. Will calls for you, and you go to him. Others…" He looks away, suddenly, his eyes on one of the shelves of books lining Hannibal's study. He swallows thickly and his hand tightens for a brief second on the armrest of Hannibal's couch.

"You said circumstances have changed," he says, and Peter nods, licking his lips. A change comes over his face, the tightness around his eyes and the clench in his jaw melting away like ice in a glass. When Peter meets his eyes again, it's all him, no flicker of anyone else in his iris. "Should I be worried for you?"

Peter huffs, and smiles. "Worry isn't something I can control," he says. "You'll be worried whether I tell you to be, or not."

Hannibal nods, conceding that point. Then he stands. "Perhaps I can put both of our minds at ease, then," he says, and holds out a hand. Peter looks up at him and takes it, letting his fingers hook around the back of Hannibal's thumb and hand and letting Hannibal pull him to his feet. "At least for a little while."

~

Hannibal leads Peter to his bedroom and escorts him inside. He closes the door behind him and allows Peter a moment to take in his surroundings. Compared to the rest of Hannibal's house, his room is relatively plain: the floors are a light wood set in cross-sectioning spirals, with a thick cream patterned carpet separating the bed from the floor. His cabinetry and closet doors are darker wood, as is the frame of his bed. His bedsheets, duvet, and pillows are a cool teal-blue color scheme, framed by two bedside tables with lamps on each, and art, and the large red plate above the headboard. At the foot of the bed, an ottoman, a small table, and two chairs form a miniature version of his psychiatric study.

Peter smiles, his hands held behind him, one hand clasping his other wrist loosely. His eyes are tilted up, admiring the dark blue ceiling, and then he turns and regards Hannibal, a ghost of a smile on his face.

He nods at the chairs. "For someone who enjoys their solitude, you certainly have a lot of places for companionship."

Hannibal smiles, and gestures for Peter to sit, and Peter does. He doesn't slouch, and doesn't look over his shoulder as Hannibal passes him and goes to one of the sets of drawers in the far corner. It has been a long time since he's had to open this particular piece of his bedroom set. He feels practically giddy with anticipation.

"Tell me, Peter," he says, and Peter hums. "Do you ever speak to your other costumes? Invoke their image as though they were sitting across from you, and engage in conversation?"

Peter is silent for a moment. Hannibal busies himself with opening the top drawer, and it slides open smoothly, as eager to open for him as it ever was. Hannibal runs his eyes over the gleaming pieces of metal, plastic, and leather. So many choices.

Peter clears his throat and Hannibal looks over his shoulder. Peter hasn't turned to regard him, his head is cocked to one side so that Hannibal can see the side of his face, but he clearly understands that Hannibal doesn't want him to see what he's grabbing, and he isn't trying to peek. "They're not as good company as you might think," he says. "If they were, you wouldn't need me."

"So, you believe in the…power of recycling?" Hannibal asks, unable to stop his huff of amusement.

Peter laughs and shakes his head. "I'm merely saying, if Charles or Will or anyone else suited you, that's who you would have met. But instead, you needed Peter. So, Peter I am. And I don't need to talk to any of them. Like you said, they're not asleep. We are all the same person wearing different clothes."

"I imagine some of you might find what we do…unrefined," Hannibal says mildly.

Peter laughs, the sound deep like a growling wolf. "If you're worried about the topic of consent, I assure you, you have it wholeheartedly." He looks up again and Hannibal hums, staring at the back of his head. "From everyone involved."

"You play with your words like a cat with a string," Hannibal says, and Peter hums and turns his gaze forward again. Hannibal slides the drawer closed, his instruments of choice in his hands. He carries them over to the table in front of Peter and sits, laying them all out for the other man to see.

"And you play with your people the same way," Peter replies, his voice little more than a whisper. Hannibal watches his face as he takes in the sight of Hannibal's toys. They are mild as far as Hannibal is concerned, certainly nothing as scandalous and destructive as what is in his own basement, but if Peter feels any hesitance at using anything more forceful than Hannibal's bare hands and teeth, Hannibal is sure he will see it in his eyes.

Peter swallows, his hands rubbing down his thighs. His knees are spread, Hannibal can see them under the table. Then he sits forward in his seat and reaches out, his fingers curling at a stop above the nearest one.

He lifts his gaze and licks his lips. "May I?" he asks.

"Of course," Hannibal says.

Peter's eyes drop and he lets his fingers graze lightly along the smooth, polished wooden handle of the first item – a flogger. The tails are long, a knotted piece of rope that splays out into thick ends made of leather so soft it's almost buttery. It's something used to make a lot of noise and impact, but the sting will be minimal.

Peter wraps his hand in it, presses his fingers tight enough against the leather that his knuckles turn white, like he's soothing his fingertips against the material the same way he used the wine glass. His eyelids flutter, just for a moment, and then he swallows and set the flogger down. He's shifting his weight – since the table is clear, Hannibal can see every move he makes.

Peter's hand touches the next instrument. They're shining, black plastic claws, with a hole in the base for a human hand to fit. They're designed to be used to make pulled pork, but Hannibal has always loved the way they feel in his hands, allowing him to leave claw lines in skin without having to sharpen his nails. Peter doesn't visibly react to them, not on his face, but his fingers tremble when he touches them and his legs pull together to try and hide the way his cock is starting to harden in his slacks.

The last item is an oddity even amongst his collection. It is a mask, a muzzle, designed to cover a man's jaw and strap around his head. There is a hole for the mouth with lines across the front, and holes for the nostrils where it is made to curve around the bottom of a nose. It's the color of old copper, the straps black plastic.

Peter swallows, and his tongue peaks out to taste his lower lip. Hannibal regards him until Peter meets his eyes. "Do I still have your consent?" he asks.

" _Yes_ ," Peter says, brazen and eager. He slides forward in his seat, his hand touching the mask one last time before he returns it to his thigh.

Hannibal smiles and stands. "I'd like you to bare yourself to me," he says, and Peter nods, biting his lower lip, and pushes himself to his feet.

"I want to warn you," Peter says quietly, "I've been a canvas for many artists."

Hannibal pauses, one eyebrow raised. "A canvas?" he repeats.

Peter nods. He shifts his weight, almost nervous, and turns his hands to the buttons of his shirt. Hannibal watches ravenously, eager to see what Peter might mean.

First, the dip of his throat is revealed, as enticing and vulnerable as ever. Then, he finishes undoing the buttons, pulls the tails of his shirt from his slacks, and shrugs it off his shoulders, and Hannibal sees what he means.

Peter's chest and shoulders are a mess of bruises and cuts. Some of them are large and old, yellowing at the edges, others a deep and dark red-purple mesh of recent hits. He looks like someone took him by the throat and dragged him down a sidewalk, there are long patches of scrapes and marks from someone's fingers on him.

Peter folds his shirt and places it on the chair, his hands going to his belt next as he toes off his shoes and slides them into place under his chair. He doesn't pause, and Hannibal doesn't move until Peter has shed all of his clothes, creating a neat pile.

He's beautiful, Hannibal cannot deny that. The muscle hinted at under his clothes is defined and gorgeous from his life, and the coloring of bruises and marks on him highlights the soft paleness of the rest of his skin. He has a thin smatter of hair below his belly button, leading down to a cleanly-shaved patch of hair surrounding his cock. There is evidence of rope burn around his thighs, red and angry marks where someone wrapped him up and pulled him too tight. Clearly Peter – or whatever he calls himself when he's with this person – is little more than a toy to them, something to use and abuse to their heart's content.

He turns, and Hannibal sees that his back is similarly marred. The bruises there are larger but there are welts here too, like someone hit him sharply with something small and leathery. The marks are not in clusters – it's not a flogger, or something Hannibal might use. He's reminded of a whipping cane, or a riding crop, when he sees the welts.

He swallows and tries to identify the emotion he's feeling. It's not anger, nothing so righteous as that. His heart doesn't ache at seeing such a beautiful man as the victim of such a beating. Instead, he sees the marks of someone's wrath on Peter's skin. And Peter let them put it there.

"Go to the side of the bed," he says. "Brace yourself on the edge."

Peter nods and obeys. He plants his hands on Hannibal's duvet cover, fingers splayed out, his back arched in a perfect, welcoming curve to lift his ass. His thighs are spread to allow Hannibal access to every single vulnerable place on his body.

"I see what you mean, now," Hannibal murmurs. He takes the mask and carries it over to Peter's side. "The intention of the artist versus the reception of the audience."

Peter hums, his eyes at half-mast. Hannibal sits on the bed by his hand and takes him by the neck, cradles his smooth jaw and pets through the curls at the base of his skull. Peter leans into it, nuzzling his palm like a sleepy kitten, and Hannibal smiles when he takes the mask and gently places it against Peter's face.

It fits perfectly. Hannibal knew it would.

He wraps the straps around the back of Peter's head, holds the muzzle to his face, and tightens the straps until it isn't uncomfortable, but there will be lines on his cheeks from its placement by the end. He takes a moment to admire the look of it – the color compliments Peter's flushed cheeks and neck wonderfully, the black blending nicely with his dark hair. He looks like a caged animal, an exotic blend of strong and submissive, and Hannibal swallows and stands.

"I feel less reserved about my inclinations, seeing you now," he says. Behind the mask, anything Peter says will be muffled at best. He can still speak and breathe normally, but the idea is to inhibit his sharp tongue and Hannibal thinks it will work perfectly. Perhaps he will have another mask made to allow access to Peter's mouth, but for what he wants tonight, it will suit him just fine.

He takes the flogger and the claws and sets them on his bedside table, before he picks the flogger back up and runs it through his hand. "I'll admit, you are making me incredibly curious," he says, and Peter hums, shifting his weight, lowering himself to his elbows. Ready. Desperate. His thighs are trembling finely, his cock hanging hard between his legs. "I wonder if I could do enough damage that you'd ask me to stop."

Peter doesn't answer, but Hannibal sees him give a minute shake of his head. He smiles, and flattens his free hand between the dips in the small of his back. They're a perfect fit for his thumbs and he files that information in the back of his mind. In comparison to the rest of him, Peter's ass is practically untouched, virgin snow begging for him to stain with blood and his own mark.

Peter rises into his touch and hangs his head, letting out a soft, needy growl. Hannibal steps back, his hand tight on the flogger, and he makes the first swing, then the second – a figure-eight motion that hits Peter's left cheek, then his right.

Peter sighs, his hands clenching in the bedspread, his shoulders rolling as he settles into place. Hannibal strikes him again, counting to ten before he stops. With each hit, he watches Peter's skin pinken, then darken to a dull red. He hits harder, but leisurely with his speed, letting the impact build and burn before he strikes again.

He hits thirty and pauses, watching as Peter's thighs tense up in anticipation of the next blow. Amongst all the other marks, the bite Hannibal placed on the back of his neck stands out, bright pink amongst the flush and the dark purple of his bruises. His silent, rutting beast.

Hannibal remembers the comparison to wolves, and he shivers.

Peter lets out a soft, breathy moan, tilting his ass up like he's begging for Hannibal to strike him again. It feels like a compulsion, and Hannibal swings the flogger once more, as hard as he can, and the sound, the dull but heavy thud of the flogger on Peter's skin, earns another strangled moan from Peter.

He smiles, breathing heavily. Bedelia had said he wasn't allowed to break Peter, that he couldn't be broken, but that doesn't mean Hannibal can't try.

He sets the flogger down and fits his fingers through the claws and steps between Peter's legs. Then, he curls his fingers around the handles, and gently runs the points of the claws across Peter's red thighs and ass.

Peter moans, goose bumps breaking out down his arms, his shoulders tightening up in pleasure. He arches into the touch, breathing hard. Hannibal digs in deeper, earning another wanton, desperate sound from the man pinned below him. Peter's skin is glistening with sweat, his scent sweet with arousal.

Hannibal growls and claws at Peter's back, crisscrossing his hands to create a needlepoint patchwork of marks. He is not gentle on the welts, doesn't lessen the pressure over the bruises, and each muffled groan and whine he elicits is like another victory to him, every sigh and moan a war cry of a battle he's already won.

He pulls back and sets the claws down, and opens his bedside drawer to retrieve a bottle of lubricant. He opens it and pours some on his fingers, grimacing at the chemical smell.

Peter had obeyed his not-order, and he's tight and dry when Hannibal touches his hole. Peter shivers, back flexing when Hannibal cups his balls with one hand, puts pressure behind them with his thumb, and sinks his first finger into Peter's welcoming body.

" _Please_ ," Peter gasps, arching back like he can get Hannibal deeper than the webbing between his fingers allows. He's needy, desperate, as much in visceral desire as an animal in heat. His hair is dark with sweat now, curling wetly at his neck like Hannibal has already put his mouth there, shed his blood and soaked him in it.

Hannibal hums, slides his first finger back, and works in a second. Peter shoves himself up to his hands to allow himself leverage to push back, every inch of his body dedicated to getting Hannibal inside of him.

Hannibal wants to see his eyes, suck the noises he makes from his whorish mouth, but he likes the sight of Peter's abused body accepting him just as much. He's eager, his hole feverishly tight around Hannibal's fingers, accepting and demanding all at once.

Hannibal pulls his fingers out and lets go of Peter's balls. He wipes his hands on Peter's red, warm skin. His ass is desert-sun hot against Hannibal's touch, the marks of the flogger raising little purple lines amongst the red. Hannibal undoes his belt, unfastens his suit pants, and pulls his cock free.

He puts his thumbs in the divots he marked, just above the thick, offered swell of Peter's ass, and digs his nails into Peter's hips. His cock ruts against the slick he left behind and he admires the shine of the lubricant smeared against his cockhead, making it glisten. Peter lets out a soft whimper of need, his head bowed like a supplicant at prayer.

"Beg me again," Hannibal growls, and doesn't recognize the way his voice sounds.

Peter moans, as desperate as man crying out for God's mercy. "Please," he whispers. "Please, Hannibal, give me your legacy."

It's a deliberate, raw choice of words, and Hannibal feels them strike him in the chest. He takes his cock in one hand and forces it against Peter's hole, makes his flesh part and accept him, and sinks inside in one smooth thrust.

Peter is tight, his body clenching up around Hannibal like he needs to fight him, but Peter is shaking with what Hannibal could only describe as pure ecstasy. He is Leda, he is Jezebel, he is the finest and most impure of conquests, and he is Hannibal's.

Hannibal allows himself a moment to indulge the way Peter grips him, fever-warm and sinfully tight, and then he pulls back. He feels Peter whine, tries to arch back to follow, and Hannibal keeps his hands tight on Peter's hips to force him to be still. He watches Peter's body as it loses him, inch by inch, hears the desperate way Peter moans for him, feels the tremble run down his spine.

He thrusts back in and Peter makes a sound that's almost like a howl.

" _Yes_ ," he growls, the words muffled behind the mask. "Fuck _, please_." And Hannibal has no more power or will to resist him than he does to change the tides or command the sun rise in the West.

He starts up a slow, punishing rhythm, closing his eyes and clenching his jaw as he allows himself to enjoy the feeling of Peter's body accepting him, welcoming him with such enthusiasm. He thinks of how Will might behave the next time they meet, if he'll walk with a slight limp and wince when he sits down. He must think of Hannibal, he must sit in his chair and remember being bent over Hannibal's desk. He will remember how Hannibal muzzled him like a dog and beat him until he screamed.

He will consume this man. He will devour him as Kronos devoured his young. By the end of it, he will have Will in his purest form, a diamond amongst coal, a pearl shaped from sand. He will do it, no matter the cost.

He reaches forward and grabs Peter's hair, fingers entwining in the straps of the muzzle and Peter's sweaty curls, and hauls him upright. Peter shivers, reaching back and grabbing his clothes for purchase, back arched. His eyes are closed, the red on his cheeks visible just above the mask, and Hannibal wants to commit this image to every sheet of paper he owns, plaster it around his room so that he can see it at all times.

He lets Peter go for a brief moment, and grabs the claws again. He holds Peter tightly, feels the claws digging into his skin. He'll be marked up, points of pain reminding him of Hannibal's conquest, of the way he so willingly gave himself up to the monster prowling underneath Hannibal's person suit. Perhaps it will encourage his own to come out – Hannibal's mate is there, he's sure of it, howling for him.

Peter's hands slide over Hannibal's and interlace with the claws, and press down in encouragement. "Take it," he pleads, his words muffled but clear. "Take all of me." He moans when Hannibal's claws dig into his stomach, flatten over the bared skin of his neck. Hannibal bares his teeth against Peter's nape and bites down and Peter flinches with a high-pitched whine.

He shakes, trembles, twitches in Hannibal's hands, and then Hannibal slows when he feels Peter start to bear down around him, tighter and hotter and then Peter's eyes fly open and he bows his head, snarling with his release. He leaves a white smear on Hannibal's duvet cover and it stands out, stark and brazen.

Hannibal growls, eyelids fluttering at the feeling of Peter's ass tightening around his cock in rhythm. He shoves him back down to his elbows and pulls the claws off. His hand wraps around the front of Peter's throat and he bends over him, his other hand gripping Peter's hip tightly as he fucks in, once, once more.

Then he feels his own orgasm overwhelm him. He presses deep and floods Peter's body with a low growl, his teeth finding another patch of unmarked skin and biting down. Peter makes a delighted, enraptured sound, shaking but steady under Hannibal's weight.

After a moment, control returns to Hannibal's body, and he straightens up and pulls out and fixes his clothes, tucking his softening cock away. Peter is trembling, and there's a thin string of white leaking from him. Hannibal smiles and reaches forward to undo the straps of the muzzle and takes it away, setting it to one side.

Peter gasps, like he hadn't been able to breathe right the entire time. His eyes are glazed, his cheeks dented from the mask, and when Hannibal gathers his release on his thumb and cups Peter's cheek, Peter sucks his thumb into his mouth and swallows it greedily.

It makes something in Hannibal purr, and then Peter's eyes meet his, black and blue like the rest of him, and Hannibal drags his thumb along Peter's lower lip, and cups the back of his head, and kisses him. Peter meets him eagerly, petting through Hannibal's sweat-damp hair, and he follows when Hannibal stands and presses himself close like he needs Hannibal for warmth.

Hannibal pulls back and lets him go, and Peter gasps again, licking his lips. He rubs the corner of his mouth with his thumb, stretches his jaw out, and smiles. There's something sitting on the tip of his tongue, some quip or confession or harmless, empty compliment, but it never comes to life. He swallows it back before it can escape.

Instead, he heaves a breath, and blinks, and his eyes clear. Hannibal mourns the loss of that glazed look. It's like Peter shrugs on a different person suit, but it's still him – just no longer affected. It makes Hannibal want to ruin him all over again. Clearly, if Peter can shrug off something like this, Hannibal may have to crack him open to get a good look at his insides.

"I think…" he begins, swallowing harshly. "You're going to try and break me, aren't you?"

"Do forts come as easily to you as they do to Will?"

Peter's eyes flash, his smile turns higher at one corner. He puts a hand over Hannibal's heart and Hannibal feels betrayed by how fast it's beating. "I have no need for forts," he purrs, shaking his head. "Like you said, we're not fighting each other, are we?"

"Sometimes I don't think it's you I'm fighting."

Peter hums. "Yes, Will can be a stubborn bitch," he mutters, and Hannibal huffs.

"Are we sure Will is the only contender here?"

Peter smiles. "Sometimes you see me as Leda, sometimes the swan. The prey and the predator. Which do you think Will is?"

"I think Will reflects the man who made him," Hannibal replies, and Peter's eyes flash with something like approval. "Jack is God to him, and so Will tries to be God as well. Merciful. But God hasn't always been merciful."

"I much preferred the Genesis stories," Peter says. He moves away from Hannibal and goes to his clothes, unfolding them and redressing himself. There are dark, deep lines from the claws on his stomach and his chest, his thighs and ass, and he's moving slowly, careful not to strain himself. Hannibal feels a small amount of pride at that. "But does that make you the Devil?"

"Are you suggesting I am Jack's enemy?"

Peter smiles, straightening up from where he's sliding on his shoes. He runs his hands through his hair, pushing it away from his face.

He returns to Hannibal and kisses him, moaning softly when Hannibal's hand immediately goes to his neck, tracing the lines of his bite marks where they stand out raw against Peter's skin. He doesn't answer Hannibal's question.

Hannibal escorts him back to his front door and gives Peter his coat, and Peter shrugs it on and sighs. "I quite enjoy our time together," he says mildly, as though their meetings are little more than quiet conversations about the weather.

"As do I," Hannibal says.

Peter smiles, and something promising crosses his face, fleeting as a shadow. "I'll see you later," he says, soft and gentle, and kisses Hannibal one more time. Hannibal's lips feels warm the entire time he gathers the rest of his belongings and leaves.

~

_I got your note. I can feel your voice in my head, calling to me. Where are you? I'll find you, wherever you are. I want nothing more than to be by your side._

_You need me. I know you do. I'll do whatever it takes._

_I can feel you by my side, I want you to have me. All of me. It's yours for the taking. I feel something in the wind, an excitement I haven't been able to quell. My art is flourishing under your care._

_Happy hunting. S._

~

At the early hours of the morning, Hannibal is roused by a quiet knock on his front door. He stands, frowning at his clock which tells him it's just past one in the morning, and goes downstairs and opens the door.

He is greeted with the sight of Tobias, finely dressed and smiling warmly, his hands clasped in front of him as though his visit is no more out of the ordinary than a missionary here to spread the word of Christ.

"Doctor Lecter," he greets, his low voice warm. Hannibal nods, straightening up. "I apologize for the late hour, but I feel there is something we must discuss. May I come in?"

Hannibal regards him for a long moment, and then he nods and step to one side. "Of course."

 


	5. Chapter 5

_We got our eyes wide open, feelin' like we're almost there. Words unspoken disappearing in the air._  
All I see is you and I - you're the only lifeline that I need tonight.   
I'm letting go.  
So this is what it feels like, being at the right place, the right time.

Right Place, Right Time – Olly Murs

~

"Can I offer you something to drink? I have a late harvest Vidal that I've been meaning to try."

"Thank you," Tobias says, and follows Hannibal into his dining room. Hannibal gestures for him to sit where Peter sat, on his left side, and goes into the kitchen to retrieve two wine glasses and the wine. When he returns, Tobias is sitting and admiring the room. His gaze is not one of polite interest – rather, Hannibal feels he can smell a need on Tobias, as thick as perfume. He's very happy to be here.

Tobias takes a sip of the wine and hums. "Where is this from?" he asks.

"Linden," Hannibal replies, and takes his own seat.

"Virginia?" Tobias asks, one eyebrow raised. "I would have sworn it's French."

Hannibal smiles and takes a sip from his own glass. "The Virginia wine revolution is upon us," he replies. Tobias hums and Hannibal cocks his head to one side. Tobias is teaching Peter – or Charles, he should say – to play the violin. "I apologize for being so blunt, Tobias, but I have to ask...." He lets the words hang in the air, sees the way Tobias' shoulders tense and his eyes light up with barely-restrained eagerness. It's a very Franklyn-like demeanor he has. "Did you kill that trombonist?"

Tobias smiles, and it feels like he's trying to pull off Peter's sly, coy smile, but it looks like snake oil. "Do you really have to ask?" he says, and his smugness makes Hannibal bristle.

"No," he replies, and turns his attention back to his wine. "Just changing the subject. The murder is being investigated by the FBI." By _Will_. And if the investigation were to be made public – if Tobias is a reader of _TattleCrime_ , he's going to see Will's face. _Charles'_ face. Hannibal wonders how much of Charles' other lives Tobias is aware of. "They’re going to find you."

Tobias laughs. "Let them."

"You want to be caught?" Hannibal murmurs, eyebrows rising.

"I want them to try." Tobias hums. His eyes alight on the painting of _Leda and the Swan_ , but nothing flickers there. No appreciation for the scandalous beauty of mythology. "They may question me because I own a string shop. They’d send two men to conduct an interview, I’d kill them. Then I would find Franklyn and Charles, and kill them. Then…I would disappear."

Hannibal shifts his weight and has to press his free hand tight to his thigh to stop himself reacting. "Don't kill Charles," he says. "Or Franklyn."

Tobias hums. "I've been looking forward to it." He pauses and gives Hannibal another soft smile. "Actually, I was going to kill you."

"Of course you were," Hannibal says with a nod of concession. "I’m lean. Lean animals yield the toughest gut."

"I make my own string, and tell anyone who asks that it's imported from Italy."

The phrase stirs recognition in Hannibal's brain. Peter had claimed the same thing. Curious. Why would he go out of his way to mention that?

Unless Charles knows. Which means Peter knows.

Which means _Will_ knows.

His brain feels strangely full of static and he takes another sip of wine. "What stopped you from wanting to kill me? Or have you stopped?"

Tobias lets out a soft chuckle. It's a warm, dark sound, and gives Hannibal the feeling of being choked by a mask of coffee and chocolate. "I stopped after I followed you one night. Out of town. Out of state." Hannibal swallows and goes tense. "To a lonely road. To a bus yard."

Regardless of what Peter might know, Tobias has to die. Hannibal decides it in that instant.

"Have you ever wanted to get caught? To see what would happen?" Tobias murmurs.

Hannibal wants to growl at him. "You're reckless, Tobias."

Tobias smiles. "I'm not going to tell anyone what I saw you do…and do well. So, my recklessness doesn't concern you."

"We have mutual connections," Hannibal replies. "It concerns me because you won’t be drawing attention just to yourself."

"I could use a friend," Tobias says. "Someone who can understand me. Who thinks like I do, and can see the world and the people in it the way I do."

Hannibal cocks his head to one side.

"I might not kill Charles," Tobias muses after a moment. "I'll confess, after the night of the Opera, after we met, I wanted to kill you. But then he played for me. And it was the most… _moving_ performance I've ever seen." Hannibal fights back a smile. "You inspire him, in a way I never could. And when I followed you, I think I began to realize why."

"I know how you feel," Hannibal says, "but I don't want to be your friend."

"Then why did you let me inside?"

"You came to me," Hannibal says. "And the hour is late. It would be rude to refuse you. Besides, I wanted to see what kind of man you are." He pauses and Tobias takes another drink of wine. "I think I might have to kill you."

Tobias raises an eyebrow and lowers his glass. He looks at it with thinly-veiled suspicion and Hannibal smiles. "I wouldn't poison you, Tobias. That would be an insult to the wine."

"I see we're not destined to agree on some things," Tobias says. "I can live with that. I am not an opportunistic man, Doctor Lecter. I choose my friends very carefully."

"As do I," Hannibal replies. Then he presses his lips together. "I want you to know Franklyn hasn't told me anything about you."

Tobias raises an eyebrow. "How, then, did you come to the conclusion that I killed the trombone player?"

"Simple deduction," Hannibal says.

Tobias regards him for a long moment, then his eyes narrow. "You know Charles," he says.

Hannibal takes a sip of wine and doesn't answer.

"I knew it."

Hannibal looks up and sees Tobias' face is dark with anger, clouding his eyes and removing all traces of the cordial manner he had been wearing before. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Hannibal replies coolly.

"I had suspected Charles knew you, and when he played for me, I asked him about it and he laughed it off." Tobias sits back and takes his glass of wine, holding it hard enough Hannibal fears for the integrity of the glass. "Little snake," Tobias spits, and finishes his glass.

"You are upset that Charles might have more than one friend?" Hannibal asks.

"You are naïve," Tobias says, and Hannibal wonders if, perhaps, he _is_ naïve. Or Tobias is. Or maybe they're both being played. If Charles knows about Tobias' nighttime activities, he had to have figured it out somehow. And to Hannibal's knowledge, they have nothing to directly implicate Tobias yet. Jack will likely send Will after Tobias to question him. And what will Tobias do when he sees the face of his 'friend' with a badge and gun on his hip?

Tobias stands and gives Hannibal a tight, toothy smile. "Thank you for the wine, Doctor Lecter," he says, and Hannibal nods and escorts him to the door. "I'm sure we'll be seeing more of each other."

"I look forward to your next composition," Hannibal replies, and closes the door behind Tobias, a smile on his face.

~

"Miss Lounds, thank you for agreeing to see us."

"Please, gentlemen, anything that will help the FBI catch this Ripper, I'm more than happy to do."

Hannibal does not like Freddie Lounds. Oh, he appreciates her tenaciousness, and she shows an ability to uncover sensitive information the likes that he has never seen before, which is an admirable quality in and of itself.

The problem he has with her is that she is very smug about it. It makes her rude, even when she tries not to be. He thinks, in another life, she and Jack would have been very well suited to each other.

Hannibal accompanies Jack and Will into Freddie's apartment. The place has an air of transience, the furniture pre-set and designed like something straight out of a magazine for middle-class people trying to pretend they have more money than they actually do.

Freddie gestures for them to sit on the couch, and Jack and Will take their seats on opposite sides. Hannibal sits in a chair next to Will, and Freddie perches on another chair next to Jack on the other end of the low coffee table.

Freddie meets his gaze and smiles tightly. She sits back, crosses one leg over the other, and laces her fingers together, pointed outwards so they resemble a star. "How can I help you, gentlemen?"

Will's expression is dark, his hands resting on his thighs and his gaze fixed with laser focus on the stack of coasters on Freddie's coffee table. His entire demeanor is like he's trying very hard not to be outwardly hostile, but he's failing. He's bristling and raw and whatever he's aggravated about, clearly being in Miss Lounds' presence is not helping the matter.

Hannibal resists the urge to reach out and touch him.

Jack clears his throat after a moment when no one speaks. "Miss Lounds, recently you've been covering a specific person of interest in your articles. 'S'." Freddie smiles and gives a single nod of agreement. "You most recently wrote that you intend to find out 'S's identity. We were hoping to get some information from you."

"You want me to find 'S' for you," Freddie says crisply, raising an eyebrow.

Will lifts his head and heaves a breath. "Not _for_ us," he says. "But you have a head start."

"You claim to have found 'S's letters to the Ripper on the darkweb," Jack says. Freddie nods, and Jack raises his eyebrows. "Do you often frequent illegal sites?"

"That's where the information is, Jack," Freddie says with another smile. Then, her eyes move to Will. "I can give you links to the original sources, you can run it through whatever searches you want, but I don't think you'll be able to find anything."

"Do you have any other information regarding 'S'?" Hannibal asks.

Freddie hums, pressing her lips together. "There was another letter this morning," she says, and stands to retrieve her laptop from her desk. "I was going to post my article about it this afternoon. Here." She opens her laptop and hands it to Jack, who takes out his reading glasses and puts them on.

Jack presses his lips together after a moment, and then he raises his eyes and puts his glasses away. "Doctor Lecter," he says, and hands the laptop over Will and into Hannibal's hands. If Will feels any outrage at being passed over, he keeps it hidden. Perhaps he is too aggravated by Freddie Lounds herself to feel his normal irritation at Jack.

Hannibal tilts the screen and reads the latest letter;

_Queen to H-4. Your move, my love. S._

Hannibal hums, and sets the laptop down. "What does it mean?" Jack asks.

"It's a Chess game," Hannibal says.

Freddie nods. "Queen to H-4 is the finishing move of _Fool's Mate_ ," she says. "It's the shortest way to get to a Checkmate."

And relies on white making a lot of foolish and ill-thought moves beforehand. Hannibal has no idea what 'S' might mean. If it is a letter for the Ripper, clearly 'S' is more aware than he is of the game they're playing, and he doesn't like that. "What's interesting is that there is no move after this one," Hannibal murmurs, looking at Freddie for confirmation. She nods. "Once Checkmate happens, the game is over. There is no 'move' for the Ripper to make in 'S's eyes."

"She's not playing Chess."

Will's voice is quiet but cutting. He presses his lips together and raises his eyes, shifting in place like he's been frozen all this time and has only just remembered how to breathe. Hannibal and Jack regard him curiously, and Freddie clenches her jaw.

"Who isn't?" she asks.

"'S'," Will replies.

"'S' isn't a woman," Freddie says, shaking her head.

"Why do you think that?" Jack asks.

"It's statistics," Freddie replies, spreading her hands out in a gesture that is trying to be helpless but comes off too superior to be effective. "'S' is a psychopath in love. Psychopaths are predominantly men, just as certain personalities are attracted to certain professions."

Jack hums. "And do you know what professions psychopaths disproportionately gravitate to?"

Freddie nods. "CEOs, lawyers…the clergy."

"Number five on the list is surgeons," Jack says.

"I know the list," Freddie says coolly.

Will huffs, and Hannibal watches him when he smiles. But it's not Will's smile. It's not Peter, or Charles either, but someone else entirely. Hannibal looks at Will and doesn't recognize him at all. "Well then," he says, "you know what number six is."

Freddie regards him with an impassive air. "Journalists," she says with a faint, humored smile. "Know what number seven is, Mister Graham?"

Will's eyes flash, and that other, unrecognizable person suit is gone. His smile turns tight and off-kilter, Will-like once again. "Law enforcement," he growls, and Freddie's smile widens.

Freddie nods, a look in her eyes like she thinks she's won. Hannibal isn't sure if it counts when she's wrong about her opponent. "Here we are," she says, and spreads her hands out again in a gesture of welcome and generosity. "A bunch of psychopaths helping each other out. I want to help, really I do, but everything I know is in my articles."

"We believe finding 'S' will lead us to the Ripper," Jack says. "In your professional opinion, Miss Lounds, given your unique access to the letters, where would you suggest we start looking?"

Freddie presses her lips together and folds her hands again. "'S' posts _his_ ," she begins, emphasizing the pronoun, her eyes on Will, "letters very late at night. Always between one or two in the morning, our time. He has to be local, otherwise there's no way he'd learn about the Ripper's murders so quickly. It's not routine, though. He won't have a nine-to-five. I'd suggest hospitals and lawmen, first. Anything that's shift-work."

"Perhaps we would benefit from the news being quiet about any new murders," Will says, holding Freddie's gaze without flinching. "If 'S' continues to write about the murders in any graphic detail, or the Ripper replies to 'S', we'll be able to narrow down their channels of communication."

"That's a good plan," Jack says. "Miss Lounds, can we count on your cooperation?"

"I have a duty to my readers to give them the truth," Freddie says sharply, frowning.

"And you will have the truth. Exclusive rights to the Ripper and 'S', once they're in custody," Jack says.

"Who knows," Will adds, showing his teeth in his smile. "Might even land yourself a six o'clock special."

Hannibal smiles, able to see the gleam of opportunity in Freddie's eyes. "Exclusive rights," she repeats slowly. She nods. "Once they're caught. As long as I'm allowed to report freely on any other murders or suspected serial killers, you have a deal."

"Done," Jack says before Will can reply. Freddie smiles and stands, shaking his hand. Will and Hannibal stand as well. She shakes Hannibal's hand and then holds hers out for Will.

Will has his hands deep in his pockets, and he lets her hand hang in the air for a long while, before he takes his out and shakes hers tightly, briefly. They exchange tight smiles and Hannibal wonders if Will is not just aggravated, but in pain. It has been a day and a half since Hannibal last saw Peter, and who knows what Peter's other clients might have done to him in the interim.

"Alright," Jack says once they leave Freddie's apartment. He rubs a hand over his head and leads the way down the hall. "Well, that's taken care of, at least."

"You really think she'll keep her mouth shut?" Will mutters.

"No," Jack says. "But if she's the only one talking about 'S', it still narrows it down. We can put an I.P. tracker on her website and see who's reading what."

"She's wrong," Will says when they reach the elevator and stand, waiting for it to come to their floor. "'S' isn't a psychopath. He might be a man, I can't say that one way or the other – statistically, yes, she's right about that – but she's not right about his personality disorder."

"How can you be sure?" Hannibal asks.

"I -." Will stops, licks his lips, and then bites his lower one. He has his hands in his pockets again and his eyes fixed on the line of the elevator doors meeting, until they open and he heaves in a breath. Hannibal can see the pink of his bite marks on Will's neck, just past the edge of the collar of his shirt. Will's face is scruffy today, he's let his beard grow back in.

Will clears his throat when they climb into the elevator and the doors close. Will stands between Jack and Hannibal, and Hannibal hides his smile at the image of the proverbial Angel and Devil on his shoulder. Or, as Peter put it, the Devil and God.

"Psychopaths navigate from a self-serving perspective," Will finally says, as the doors open again on the ground floor and they head out of the apartment complex. "Their lack of personal connection allows them to be almost entirely neutral, as long as it serves their own needs. 'S' isn't doing that. 'S's entire personality is shaped by the Ripper, and 'S' wants nothing more than to be with him and serve him."

Hannibal blinks. "An interesting choice of words," he says.

Jack hums in agreement. "We know that 'S' believes him- or herself to be in love with the Ripper," he says, heading to his car. Hannibal had driven separately and parked next to Jack's black SUV. The air is cold and crisp, allowing their breath to mist within their little cluster. "How long do you think 'S' will wait before they start to do something about it?"

"'S' wouldn't," Will breathes. He's shivering, biting his lower lip, curled up within his coat as though the cold is physically beating him.

Jack raises an eyebrow, apparently unconvinced. "I have to go," he says to Will. "Bella and I have a lunch date. Do you need a ride back to BSU?"

"I can take you," Hannibal offers, and Will doesn't give any indication one way or another like he cares. Jack nods and gets in his SUV, and Hannibal and Will get into Hannibal's car. Hannibal turns the heat on high and Will shivers, cupping his hands over his mouth and blowing on them to warm them up.

They sit in silence for a long while and then Hannibal shifts the car into drive and pulls out of the parking lot, onto the main road. Will's presence feels…prickly, like a cat covered in static electricity. Even the normal twitches and shivers Hannibal could attribute to being cold don't fade away after the car is pleasantly warm.

He wants to ask Will about Tobias. Or, more accurately, he wants to ask _Charles_ about Tobias. And Will about Freddie, and about 'S'. He wants to ask Peter when he'll see him again. But Will won't tell him – after all, people don't change their clothes in public. Will's person suits have no reason to be any different.

~

Hannibal takes the silence as an opportunity to think over what he knows.

Of the five person suits, he has met Will, Peter, and Charles. There is a fourth one that Hannibal suspects is the one that allows himself to be beaten so mercilessly. And he doesn't think Tobias and Charles are the couple to have done that – Tobias doesn't seem to have any sexual interest in Charles. He finds pleasure in teaching Charles the violin, in making him touch his gut strings and play until he bleeds. Additionally, he doesn't think the fourth person suit's client is engaging with his suit sexually. The blows had felt too angry for arousal, bitter and full of vengeance. Will's person suit for that particular client is a vessel, a faceless punching bag for their anger. Nothing they want to engage with in the name of pleasure.

Which leaves secret door number five. The only complete unknown. And it is _this_ suit, Hannibal suspects, that is the true personality. And Hannibal thinks he's seen him before, in flashes and tiny moments too fleeting to analyze properly.

He assigns that suit the name 'Five', in his head. The other one, 'Four'.

So there is Will, Peter, Charles, Four, and Five.

Will is the wildest card of all of the known ones. He works for the FBI, he is actively hunting the Chesapeake Ripper. Hannibal's ingratiation as Will's therapist and Jack's request for his assistance in profiling will help him to keep ahead of the curve, but it is occurring to Hannibal that Will knows more than he does, because Will is constantly aware.

Will knows what Peter and Hannibal talk about. He knows what Tobias' favorite musical score is. No matter who is engaging with his clients, Will's brain is there, which means Will's _eyes_ are there. Will knows about Hannibal's secret drawer of toys and instruments, he knows how Hannibal behaves during intimate dinners and at the Opera. Peter had said they were always aware and engaged and Hannibal believes him.

Hannibal knows that Charles is in danger. Even if Tobias doesn't kill him, even though Charles 'moved' him with his performances, Tobias is jealous that Hannibal knows him, in whatever capacity. He is a narcissist and delights in Franklyn's adoration, but now he knows Charles does not give that to him. Tobias might kill Charles just to get to Hannibal, as revenge for spurning his offer of friendship.

Then…Peter. Wonderful, interesting, beautiful Peter. Hannibal knows he must remove the other person suits to get to the man Will Graham was when he first entered into the world, but he will mourn the loss of Peter's company. He can only hope Five lives up to his expectations.

~

"You're very quiet."

Will's voice cuts through his thoughts and Hannibal breathes in deeply through his nose. "Merely examining evidence," he says. "Unfortunately I don't have your remarkable intuition."

"Please, Doctor Lecter, there's no need to flatter me."

His voice sounds different, but Hannibal cannot take his eyes off the road long enough to look. "I'm worried for you," he says. "And I'm curious why you believe 'S' will never take it upon himself to commit his own crimes to catch the Ripper's attention."

He hears Will huff a small laugh. "The Ripper is…a master," he says. "He creates art. Would you want to present Botticelli with _The Birth of Venus_ done as a stick figure?"

Hannibal raises an eyebrow and looks over at Will. His expression is amused, aloof, his eyes bright and heavy-lidded. His posture is like that of a lax, fat cat, purring in front of the fireplace. "Oh," he says, and earns a hum. "Hello, Charles."

Charles smiles, close-lipped and faint. "Hello, Doctor Lecter."

"I was wondering if I might see you again."

"I'm afraid this might be the last time," Charles says. "I sense that I will no longer be needed, one way or another."

"You refer to Tobias?"

"Yes," Charles says. He turns to regard Hannibal and smiles, placing a gentle hand on his arm. "Scheherazade has reached the end of her story."

"If your intention was to calm my worries, you're not doing a very good job of it."

Charles laughs and takes his hand away. "I'm sorry," he replies. "I'm not suited to your way of speaking. But it doesn't matter." He waves his hand in a dismissive gesture. "I suppose I came here to say 'Good bye'."

"Tobias told me…. He believes I inspired you, the night we met. When you played for him."

Charles smiles, serene and fine. "I played until my fingers bled," he says. "And I wanted to keep going. I never wanted to stop."

"Tobias intends to kill you."

Charles hums. "You're worried for me."

"You may have five suits, as you said, but you only have one body. One heart. One set of guts."

"That is true," Charles concedes. He falls silent and Hannibal drives on. Charles' demeanor doesn't change, but when Hannibal drives up to Will's house he sees him straighten, his eyes bright as the sounds of his barking dogs reaches them, and when he gets out he seems more his usual self.

Whichever self that happens to be.

Hannibal drives away, mindful of the time. He has an appointment with Franklyn later this afternoon.


	6. Chapter 6

_Do you still believe in me?_   
_Didn't I give everything I had to give you to make you see?_   
_I'll never forget – if you turn your back on me now and walk out, I will never let you live it down._   
_I'll never quit._

Believe – Eminem

~

Hannibal will confess that he is distracted throughout his session with Franklyn. Franklyn's conversation revolves mostly around Tobias, which does nothing to soothe Hannibal's nerves. He is all-too aware that at any moment, Jack could get a lead that points him in the direction of Tobias' shop. He might send Will there, and Tobias might try and attack or kill him.

Someone other than Will might rise up and strike back.

Hannibal could visit the Opera and know that Will's guts are on one of the instruments.

He shifts his weight and swallows, tries to tune into Franklyn's relentless babbling. He's talking about Tobias, _still_ , says that he's been saying 'very dark things'. He wants to go and report the crime to the police.

Hannibal wants to let him. Much better that faceless cops die at Tobias' hands than Will, than _Peter_. But Tobias knows too much, and he's smug and reckless and Hannibal cannot allow him to be captured.

He must say something soothing enough, because Franklyn leaves without too much protest. Hannibal is ready to go hunting himself, just end the whole bloody business before it can begin, but then there is a knock on his door. It's frantic, but soft – two heartbeats and then three in rhythm like someone is trying to remember how normal people knock.

Hannibal frowns. He is sure he had no more appointments today.

"Yes?" he calls, straightening up his things. He doesn't take off his coat.

"…Doctor Lecter?" Hannibal pauses. It's Will's voice. "I'm sorry to disturb you. I –. I need your help."

The she wolf calls, and Hannibal runs to his mate.

He opens the door and allows Will inside. Will looks jittery, his hair windswept, his cheeks a dark red like the innards of rare steak. He's rubbing at his hands and shivering despite the heat of Hannibal's office, and he strides in and paces to the desk, then turns and leans against it. He rubs his hands over his face and Hannibal closes the door behind him and walks over to stand in front of Will.

He slides his hands in his pockets and waits for Will's breathing to steady out. "What's wrong?" he murmurs.

"I need…" Will stammers, swallows harshly, and lifts his eyes. He drops them again, unable to hold Hannibal's gaze, and grits his teeth. "I was hoping you could…help me…with something," he says.

Hannibal cocks his head to one side.

"I need something to help me sleep," Will says.

Hannibal blinks, his fingers curling in his pockets. "That could have waited until our next appointment, Will," he says, scolding. If Peter wants to be so strict about boundaries, it's only polite that Will and his person suits do the same. Will flinches and grits his teeth, the corner of his jaw bulges, and he nods.

"I know," he whispers, and he sounds so utterly helpless. When he looks up, his eyes are bright and glassy with unshed tears. Hannibal regards him, and isn't sure how well he manages to keep his face impassive. "I just didn't know what else to do. Or where to go. I need to sleep."

He must know that Hannibal will look at him and see Peter, and Charles, and whoever Four and Five are. Why does Will need to sleep? Which one of them is having nightmares? "If I write you a prescription, you must promise to tell me openly, in our next session, why you need it," Hannibal says, because he feels that it is all he will be able to get them to commit to.

Will nods, swallowing harshly. "Thank you," he says, and reaches out to touch Hannibal's arm gently. Hannibal sighs. Will does look tired, there are dark circles under his eyes and when Hannibal looks down, he can see deep bruises the same thickness as handcuffs around Will's wrists where his sleeve has ridden up to expose them.

He goes to his desk and pulls out his prescription pad, writing in a sedative and sleep aid. He tears them off and hands them to Will. "Do be careful, Will," he says, as Will takes them with shaking fingers. "I won't tolerate you abusing yourself in my name."

"No, Doctor Lecter," Will says, folding them and sliding them into his pocket. He smiles, and it's weak and shaky. "Thank you again."

~

Margot Verger is the kind of soft, sweet child that all-too easily turns into an opportunistic killer. She is the woman who was held down and beaten one too many times. She is the horse that kicked at her trainer when the whip struck her flanks too harshly. She is the dog that, one day, decided to bite first.

Hannibal sees an anger in her, helpless and without direction. She stands and stares out of the window in his study, her hand on her arm, kneading at where the sling digs into her shoulder.

"You are no more at fault for what happened to you than if you had been bitten by a mad dog," Hannibal murmurs. She turns and offers him a small smile, eyes downcast, and walks back to the second chair. She sits like a petulant child, slouching.

"Mad dogs are put down," she replies. Her voice is soft, but cutting.

"Is that what you hoped to accomplish when you attacked your brother?" Hannibal asks, a ghost of a smile on his face.

Margot sighs, one eyebrow raised in a haughty, aloof expression. Hannibal will admit that, since Margot first started her sessions with him at the 'encouragement' of her family, she has improved remarkably well. "Apparently," she begins, "I went about 'putting him down' the wrong way. He’s still alive." She pushes her tongue against her upper lip, clucks it, sniffs, and looks down at her nails. "I should have waited until my arm was healed."

Hannibal smiles. "Doing bad things to bad people makes us feel good," he says, and she raises her eyes without lifting her head. The whites of her eyes are stark, and Hannibal is reminded of when Will said he didn't like eye contact. Eyes are too distracting, and Margot's reveal everything. "Did you feel good, trying to kill your brother?"

Margot sighs and sits up, turning her face away. "Trying wasn't terribly satisfying," she murmurs.

Hannibal cocks his head to one side. "What's your relationship with your brother now?" he asks. "Has it changed?"

She smiles. "I guess you could say that," she says, and looks at Hannibal again. Her smile reminds him of Will, like she knows something he doesn't. "I think he thinks I’ve calmed down."

"Have you?"

"Oh, I'm calm," Margot replies.

"Are you going to try again?"

Margot is silent for a moment, before she sighs through her nose. "This is where therapy gets tricky."

Hannibal smiles. "It doesn't have to be tricky."

"I could confess to a murder and you can't say a word. I could have killed someone this morning and you can't say a word. But if I'm _planning_ to commit a murder…"

Hannibal nods. "I am ethically obligated to take action to prevent that murder," he finishes. Margot looks almost disappointed. "Be that as it may, if there’s no one else to protect you, Margot, you have to protect yourself."

She regards him, her jaw inching to the side, then back.

"It would actually have been more therapeutic if you had killed him."

Margot huffs, sitting back, and waves her useable hand dismissively. "My family doesn’t see me as the victim. They see me as the passive-aggressor. They were disgusted by what my brother _did,_ not with _him_." She scoffs. "With me for allowing it to happen."

"Your brother dehumanized you and your family unfortunately fosters that climate of disrespect," Hannibal says. "It's natural to feel angry about that kind of abuse and mistreatment."

Margot hums. "They think I’m weird."

Hannibal smiles. "I’m much weirder than you will ever be, Margot. It’s fine to be weird."

"I don't know, Doctor Lecter," she says, shaking her head. She sighs, curling her nails and resting her teeth against them. Hannibal hears them click. "They’ve already forgiven him. Talk shows and self-help books thrive on this sort of thing. Everybody loves a sinner redeemed."

"You would see that sinner cast down," Hannibal says.

Margot looks at him, and then straightens up. "I've found my own way of coping," she says. "A way to…deal with how I'm feeling. To regain control."

Hannibal raises his eyebrows, and he can see how desperate she is to tell him. "I hope nothing too damaging for yourself," he says.

She smiles. "No," she replies. Her eyes are uncharacteristically bright. Whatever she is thinking about, it brings her great joy. "My brother…. He's the prodigal son, set about repairing his ways. He may have made bad choices before. But now he can make new, better choices."

"And you believe that?"

"Do you believe me?" Margot counters, and she's smiling widely now. "My brother doesn't think I'll ever stand up to him. And maybe I can't. Maybe I'll always be a simpering little pig to him."

Hannibal sighs. "Margot, it is not my role to believe you, or condemn you, or praise you in any measure. My role is to help you understand what you believe, and why."

Margot regards him for a long moment. "I believe my brother won't stop," she says. She clicks her nails against her teeth again, then shifts her weight and lets her hands fall.

"And how does that make you feel?"

Her lips twitch. "Angry."

Hannibal smiles. "Anger is an energizing emotion. It prompts action against threat. If you’re angry, you’re optimistic you can stop this from happening again."

"Oh, I know how to stop it."

Hannibal's smile doesn't change. "Anybody can become angry," he says. "According to Aristotle, that's the easy part. But to be angry with the right person, and to the right degree, and at the right time, and for the right purpose, and in the right way…. That’s not easy." Margot lowers her eyes. "Tell me about this coping mechanism you've discovered."

Margot's smile turns uneven, one side of her mouth curving up high enough to make her cheek bulge. It gives her an air of youthful deviance, like she's been caught sneaking a cookie from the jar by a doting parent. She crosses her legs. "I'm not sure I should," she replies.

Hannibal tilts his head. "You have spoken freely until now," he says. "I won't force you, but I think it's always good to share in things that make you happy."

She bites her lower lip, laces her fingers together. "There's this man," she begins, and Hannibal hums, curious despite himself. "I met him through a…mutual friend."

"Is this man…a lover?" Hannibal asks.

Margot huffs a laugh and shakes her head. "No, Doctor Lecter," she says. "Not the right parts for my taste, unfortunately."

Hannibal nods, and gestures for her to continue.

"He was…sweet to me," she says, and her eyes move away, becoming glazed and far-off. "Not in a desperate way, you understand. He didn't hear my last name and get money signs in his eyes. He seemed to just look at me and… _know_."

She swallows, and her eyes sharpen, and she looks down at her hands. She seems ashamed, but she's smiling. "It's good that you have friends, Margot," Hannibal says.

"Oh, he's not a friend," Margot says, a small laugh escaping.

Hannibal pauses, and cocks his head to one side. "What do you do with this man?"

"I beat him," she says. "We have pens – for the pigs, you know – and I put him in one, and tie him up so he can't move. I beat him until he cries and begs me to stop. And then…" She sucks in a breath. "I know he's not my brother. But he can mimic his voice really well. And he tells me he loves me and I know it's the only way I'll ever hear Mason say it. And then I…take care of him, afterwards."

It's a relationship Hannibal has heard of before, sadists and masochists coming together to enjoy in the give and take of pain. He's not shocked from a moral standpoint, but perhaps surprised is a more accurate word. "Is your brother aware that you are beating his surrogate?" he asks.

Margot nods. "My brother knows about him," she replies. "I think…. I think he understands that this man is helping me. He understands that as long as he's there, I won't go after him."

"What do you call this man?" Hannibal asks. "Surely he has a name?"

Margot smiles. "I don't know his real name," she says. "He told me I could call him whatever I wanted." Hannibal swallows and his fingers go tight on his pen. "So I call him 'Mason', or 'Big brother', when he starts crying. He's very pretty when he cries."

"I'm sure," Hannibal says, and his voice is oddly hoarse. "And he allows you to do this to him?"

Margot nods. "We don't always do that," she says lightly. "Sometimes I don't want to hurt him. Sometimes I just want to sit with him and enjoy his company. Like…like I wish I could do with the real Mason." She swallows, and then her jaw clenches. "But then I remember."

Hannibal sits forward, and the movement draws Margot's eyes.

"If you really want to kill your brother, Margot, wait until you can get away with it," he says. She presses her lips together and nods. "Or…find someone to do it for you."

Her eyes flash and she tilts her head to one side. Hannibal smiles, and sits back, and says nothing more on the matter.

~

Hannibal walks towards Jack, who he sees amidst a small group of forensic investigators, blood-splatter analysts, coroners, and, of course, Will.

Jack meets his eye and gives him a nod, disengaging himself from the crowd and meeting Hannibal halfway across the parking lot. Will is a silent shadow at his side. He looks better rested, but Hannibal cannot say for sure if he's been sleeping well or not.

"Doctor Lecter," Jack greets with another nod. Hannibal raises an eyebrow, curious why Jack isn't leading the way to the crime scene. It had happened at a bank, which Hannibal finds…daring, since the security cameras in such a facility are sure to have caught something. "Thank you for coming to meet me here. I… I'll be honest. I don't even have words for what you're about to see."

"Lead the way," Hannibal says, and Jack nods. He forms the point of a triangle, Hannibal on his left and Will on his right, as they duck under the police tape and head into the bank.

"The security cameras were fed into a loop. Security guard was taken out first, there's nothing on surveillance. Bodies were discovered by the janitor in the early hours of the morning, but time of death was put around midnight."

Hannibal nods, and for the first time in a while, he can say he doesn't know what he expects to see. Jack seems shaken.

"The bodies have been identified as the security guard – a Mister Douglas Jones – Franklyn Froideveaux, and Tobias Budge."

Hannibal stops, and blinks, and gazes upon the scene.

The bodies have been impaled, set in place in an odd, off-kilter line. Hannibal puts his hands in his pockets and steps forward, around the body of the security guard. He was a plain-looking man, the only thing Hannibal considers worthy of note is the bright yellow-orange color of his hair. His eyes are blank and staring, his mouth open and caked in old blood.

Franklyn -. Hannibal recognizes him immediately. He sighs, and comes to a stop in front of Franklyn. Franklyn's face is white, ghostly, but set in an expression of the same puppy-like, wide-eyed adoration that Hannibal had so come to detest. His hands are raised, suspended on the bollards used to create lines in the banks, and he's holding his hands out in supplication towards the final figure.

Tobias is wearing the same suit he was in when he came to Hannibal's house. Hannibal regards him coolly, his eyes moving up and down. His hands have been removed, and when Hannibal tilts his head and stares into his open mouth, he can see that his tongue is missing as well.

"Have we found his hands yet?" Hannibal asks.

Jack clears his throat. "Yes," he says, and Hannibal turns to look. He follows Jack's gaze and sees where it leads – Tobias' hands have been placed against the ornamental door to the security boxes. They have been positioned as though a man is holding the edges of the ring, ready to spin the lock to open the door. One finger points to the number '12', the second to '14'.

"What about his tongue?"

Will huffs a small, bitter-sounding laugh. "No," he replies, and shakes his head. "We haven't found his tongue yet."

"'S' wrote another letter this morning," Jack says darkly, his voice low, and he walks over to Hannibal and takes out his phone. "Beverly texted me the link as soon as it came up."

"Within our usual timeframe?" Hannibal asks, and Jack nods.

He selects the link in Jack's phone and it takes him to a dark website. There is only a single block of white text:

_For it is not an enemy who insults me — I could have handled that — nor is it someone who hates me and who now arises against me — I could have hidden myself from him — but it is you — a man whom I treated as my equal — my personal confidant, my close friend! We had good fellowship together; and we even walked together in the house of God!_

"It's from Psalms," Will says when Hannibal lowers the phone and hands it back. His eyes move over to the trio and Hannibal swallows, following his gaze.

"Franklyn was a patient of yours, wasn't he, Doctor Lecter?" Jack asks.

Hannibal nods. "Yes. And I've met Mister Budge once, at the Opera, in Franklyn's company," he says. He frowns, deeply disturbed. It's not often that Hannibal comes across a murder so artful, with such flair, that he did not commit himself.

He looks down, and tilts his head to one side. The floor of the bank is a checkered pattern, black and white. His eyes go to the vault door, and then he steps past Will and Jack, and follows the line of tiles until it hits where the security guard is impaled.

One white pawn, the security guard, F-3. The second, Franklyn, G-4. Tobias, black's queen…

"H-4," he whispers, and looks up. He sees Will smiling, like Hannibal is a dog that's just learned a neat new trick. "Jack, this is a chessboard. _Fool's Mate_."

Jack blinks at him, his eyes widening, and he looks at Will. Will presses his lips together and nods. "Shit," he growls, rubbing his hands over his face. "I thought you said 'S' wasn't the type to start committing his own murders! That he'd be too scared of disappointing the Ripper."

Will swallows and shakes his head. "He wouldn't," he replies. "This isn't for the Ripper." He looks over at the scene, his eyes crystal-blue, bright like stained glass. And Hannibal has to agree – despite the artistry of the scene, it lacks a certain calculation. The whole scene reeks of _anger_.

Will straightens up. "Mister Budge was a lead for the Vance murder, wasn't he, Jack?" he asks, and Jack nods, frowning. "I never got a chance to question him. But he owned a string shop in Baltimore, I remember you saying that." Will's eyes slide to Jack, then Hannibal, then back to the crime scene. "Perhaps we should check his shop for any…unrefined things."

Hannibal smiles and Jack narrows his eyes. "'S' wrote his first angry letter after the murder of Archer Vance," he says. "Perhaps he knew Mister Budge. Maybe he knew he did it, and killed him for it?"

"If 'S' believed Mister Budge killed Mister Vance, and thought he was a threat against the Ripper…. Or, even worse, that he might damage the Ripper's legacy?" Will shrugs. "People have done terrible things in the name of love."

Jack lets out a low curse. "I'll send some men to his shop," he says, and then gives a nod to Hannibal. "Doctor Lecter, thank you again."

Then, he leaves, and Hannibal and Will are left alone. Hannibal steps close to Will and Will doesn't move. His eyes are on Tobias and Hannibal tries to read the emotions there, but it's difficult, with Will's glasses shielding his eyes and hidden behind his hair.

"I suppose you were right," Hannibal says after a moment. Will hums. "There is no need for one of you anymore, one way or another."

Will frowns, then bites his lower lip, scratching the back of his head. "More room to work, I guess," he replies.

"Were you angry with him, Will?" Hannibal asks, his voice low so that they are not overheard. There is no one near them, but this is a delicate subject. "Or…I should say…was Charles angry?"

Will lets out an uncomfortable noise. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

Hannibal hums. "Perhaps…Peter, then," he says, and Will goes stiff. "Or Mason?"

Will's head snaps up, his eyes are wide and he turns to face Hannibal fully. "You have no _right_ ," he growls, and he takes one hand out of his pocket and jabs his finger against Hannibal's chest.

Hannibal takes Will's hand in both of his own and holds it gently, forcing his fingers to curl up within Hannibal's palms. "I'm not here to betray you, Will," he says, "or take away all of your secrets." Will's expression is like he can't decide whether to be angry or afraid. No other suit is making an appearance in his eyes or on his face. "You have nothing to fear from me, but I was worried for you."

Will licks his lips, and looks down at his hand. Hannibal lets it go and Will's fingers curl up again, then flex, like he's forgotten how to make them work. He shoves his hand back in his pocket and pulls his coat tight around his stomach.

He swallows harshly and opens his mouth, closes it with a snap. He sighs. "You have nothing to worry about, Doctor Lecter," he says. His eyes go to Tobias' stiff, staring body. Fleeting, there and gone again just as quickly, his upper lip twitches in a snarl and something angry and satisfied passes over his face. It's not Charles, it's not aloof enough to be Charles, and Peter feels no anger and, now that Hannibal has guessed right, he's sure it's not Mason either. Mason – not 'Four' anymore, now that he has a name – has no reason to be angry with Tobias.

That means Hannibal has seen, just briefly, another glimpse of Five. Tobias' death, even though Hannibal had nothing to do with it, feels like a victory, since it allowed Charles to disappear and now Hannibal knows the identity of the other unknown person suit, he is sure that once Margot is satisfied with her relationship with her brother, she will have no need for Will's Mason-suit anymore. Which will leave Peter, Will, and Five. A much more manageable amount.

He smiles at Will and Will swallows again, turning his gaze away. He clears his throat and looks up at Hannibal again and Hannibal knows he's looking at Peter. "I'll see you tonight," he says, soft with promise, and Hannibal nods. Will nods back, and turns away to rejoin Jack and his group of FBI agents. Hannibal smiles all the way back to his car.

~

Hannibal waits for Peter to arrive at his home, and passes the time sitting in his living room, his eyes on the fire burning away in the fireplace, and he thinks through everything he knows.

He is certain that 'S' killed Tobias, Franklyn, and the security guard. The timing of his letters and the message that came just after the time of death of the trio doesn't allow him to believe anything else. Which is troubling, because it almost certainly means that 'S' is, somehow, tied to Charles. Which means he's tied to Peter, and Will, and Mason, and Five.

Hannibal has no reason to believe that Will is 'S'. Of course, he has no reason to believe that he _isn't_ 'S', either. Will, and Peter, and by extension his other selves, choose their words, their personas, incredibly carefully. Which means every word Hannibal has shared, every soft plea, every declaration and utterance from Will and Peter and Charles is carefully calculated, timed, and performed with the same precision as a ballet dancer.

Will creates his person suits with a client in mind. There's no reason to create 'S' if he didn't know who the Ripper was. Which is an uncomfortable thought all on its own.

Will had called 'S' a she wolf, and the Ripper as her mate. Hannibal touches Peter and feels him howl. Will had seen Hannibal's offering to 'S', the woman with her heart taken and her ribs spread open wide, and had seen Hannibal's love in the touches, his inspiration. Charles had played a violin with such passion that he'd bled into the strings.

Peter had begged for Hannibal's touch, his teeth and claws, his 'unrefined' desires. He'd asked for Hannibal's legacy, and Will had said 'S' felt threatened by the Ripper's legacy being defamed. Peter had told Hannibal about Tobias' 'catgut' strings mere hours before the man himself had confessed to pretending his strings were catgut.

Lies and secrets and manipulations all stacked on top of each other and leaning, crumbling like an old archway. It's beautiful, raw and ragged in its vulnerable artistry. Peter is an artist – so is 'S', and Charles. Mason allows himself to be a canvas, just as Peter does. Charles plays his beast a song, and his song ended, and so too did Charles.

Hannibal's intention has not changed. He will destroy and devour Will, Peter, Mason, and Five, until he uncovers the man for who and what he truly is. He will find his mate, his silent beast, the perfect companion for his own prowling monster.

And he will also find 'S'. He will write his own love note, paint it in blood and viscera, compose a letter to his love so beautiful and intimate that the strongest man would weep.

He will know by Will's reaction, if Will is 'S'. If _Five_ is 'S'.

His fingers itch, his mouth feels dry, and his heart is hammering.

Peter knocks on the door, and Hannibal's monster prowls to answer.

~

Hannibal opens the door and Peter smiles at him, stepping inside. Hannibal closes the door and Peter hangs up his coat, and then turns to regard Hannibal. His eyes are dark, greener at this hour than they were at the bank, and he gives Hannibal a slow once-over, too knowing to be appreciative and too flirtatious to be clinical.

He turns and Hannibal meets him, fists a hand in Peter's hair and kisses him deeply. Peter moans, and gasps when Hannibal turns him and presses him against the wall, his free hand grabbing Peter's bruised wrist and forcing it against the wall by his head.

Peter lets out a soft, sweet moan, and when Hannibal pulls back he lunges forward, desperate to catch Hannibal's mouth again and Hannibal allows it, shoving Peter harshly against the wall, and he guides Peter's hand by the wrist so that it settles around Hannibal's shoulders. Peter digs his nails in immediately, his other hand sliding to settle on Hannibal's back, desperate to get him closer.

"Hannibal," Peter gasps, his eyes closing when Hannibal growls and lowers his head, forcing Peter's jaw to one side so that his neck is bared. He opens his mouth wide and sucks a dark bruise over the sweet, damp skin below Peter's ear, and feels Peter shiver against him. "Hannibal, _please_."

Hannibal lets out a soft growl, biting down on the bruise he just left, and Peter trembles in his arms, tensing up and digging his nails into Hannibal's clothes. He kisses over Peter's pulse, pleased at how fast and harsh it is under his mouth. "You're very reactive, tonight."

"As are you," Peter murmurs. "I won't ask you why if you don't ask me."

Clever boy. Hannibal smiles and pulls back, petting a hand through Peter's hair and fisting tightly.

Peter's eyelids flutter and his lips part, he's breathing harshly already and his cheeks are flushed. "Would you be amenable to spending the night?" Hannibal asks. "I don't believe either of us will be satisfied after one round."

Peter smiles, huffs a soft, agreeing laugh. "Yes," he says, " _if_ …by the end of it, I get to feel your skin against mine." Hannibal cocks his head to one side and Peter bites his lower lip, his expression coy and pretty, and he slides one hand from Hannibal's shoulder to rest on the place where his waistcoat joins. "I know you like the power exchange of being clothed while I'm not. I don't want to challenge that, I don't mind it at all."

"Then why ask?" Hannibal replies. He punctuates the question with a tug on Peter's hair, and he leans in to swallow the gasp he gets in return. Peter arches against him, pinned so sweet and willing between the wall and Hannibal's claws. When Hannibal pulls back to see his eyes, he looks ravenous.

Peter swallows.

"It's intimate," he says. "And I want to see what my blood looks like on your skin."

"You think I'll make you bleed?" Hannibal whispers. His belly clenches with desire, he remembers how Peter's mouth had tasted when he'd bled behind his teeth. His mouth is dry and he wants to drink his water from Peter's lips, wants to sate his hunger with Peter's flesh.

Peter nods. "I want you to," he replies, and Hannibal cannot help himself. He puts his free hand to Peter's throat and squeezes and doesn't miss how whatever's left of Peter's iris is swallowed by his pupil, doesn't miss how his heartbeat stutters and his scent turns sweet with arousal. As if the look in his eyes and the feeling of his erection against Hannibal's thigh wasn't evidence enough.

Hannibal smiles. "Do you think if you spread your legs for me as Leda did for Zeus, you will not die?" he asks.

Peter's eyelids flutter and he curls his fingers in Hannibal's clothes, pulling him close. "I think I will give you a legacy, Hannibal," he says, smiling. "As I've wanted to from the beginning."

Hannibal swallows, and steals one more kiss from Peter's sweet, clever mouth, before he pulls back and lets go. His neck is pink from Hannibal's hand putting pressure there, his eyes black with desire. He looks halfway to sin already.

"Join me upstairs," he commands, and Peter nods, and smiles.


	7. Chapter 7

_This ink, it travels from the page, up my hand and to my veins,_   
_Choking on those stories I've told._   
_If there are words here left to say, I just want to let you know:_   
_I'm falling on my knees right now, I'm covered in the mess I made, these colors used to wash right out, but now they are a part of me._   
_And I've been searching for a remedy when all along it's been in front of me._   
_I need you here, I need you now. Right now._

The Black Market – Rise Against

~

Hannibal guides Peter upstairs with a hand on his neck. They stumble, rough and panting like animals in the height of summer, and when Hannibal leads Peter into his bedroom, he turns them and shoves Peter backwards so that he falls onto the bed.

Peter swallows, leaning up when Hannibal covers him. He moans against Hannibal's mouth and rakes his hands through Hannibal's hair and down his back, eager to get Hannibal as close to him as he can. Hannibal's knees dig into his mattress between Peter's thighs, his hands spread out on Peter's strong chest and around the back of his neck, cradling him and kissing him and consuming him whole.

Hannibal pulls back when he must make a concession for air. Peter gasps, his eyes bright and glazed, cheeks red, lips bruised. He looks absolutely decadent, the finest feast Hannibal could ever indulge in. Hannibal pushes himself to his feet and slides his hands down Peter's thighs.

"Lie still," he commands, and Peter nods, licking his lips like he needs to taste Hannibal's kiss on his mouth. Hannibal smiles and puts his hands on either side of Peter's left thigh. He holds him tightly, knowing there are bruises and rope burns under the clothing. Peter winces, but doesn't ask him to stop, doesn't beg for mercy.

His cock makes an obscene tent in his slacks and Hannibal curls his fingers, digs his nails in, and drags them down until he reaches Peter's shoe. He tugs at the knot of the laces, pulls them loose, and slides the shoe off Peter's foot, the sock following quickly.

He gives the other leg the same treatment.

Peter hums, eyes heavy-lidded. "I feel like an offering," he says.

Hannibal smiles, slides his hands back up until he reaches Peter's waist, curls his fingers around the loops for his belt. "That makes me a god, does it not?"

"Mm, my own personal Zeus," Peter replies, and Hannibal cannot help feeling a small spark of pride at that. Peter had called him 'better' when they first met; he indulges Hannibal's sense of superiority without flair, like it's well-deserved.

"I suppose that makes you Leda, then."

Peter sighs, tilting his head back to expose his throat when Hannibal unbuckles his belt and slides it free. He folds it, running his hand over the soft leather, and looks at Peter, considering.

"I think you and I are more suited to Persephone and Hades," Peter says after a moment. He looks up, and then sits up, and folds his hands together in a close-fisted prayer. Like he knows what Hannibal wants.

Hannibal cocks his head to one side, and then he loops Peter's belt around his wrists and between them. He pulls them tight together and buckles the belt again. It won't keep Peter chained if he really decides to struggle, but Hannibal is sure he won't. Peter likes being caught, the moth in the spiderweb, the dog on a leash and muzzled.

Peter's eyelids flutter and Hannibal cannot resist leaning in and kissing him. "Again you call me the Devil," Hannibal murmurs, cupping Peter's jaw. Peter smiles at him, like a man might look at his beloved on their wedding day. "I'm starting to think you're projecting."

Peter laughs, the sound swallowed by another kiss when Hannibal puts his hand to Peter's throat and digs his nails in to feel how he moans. "Like I said," he murmurs, "I am a reaction. A mirror for you. I can only project what you want me to."

"A cat with a string," Hannibal says, and Peter's smile widens. Hannibal steps back and wraps his fingers in the knot of Peter's belt, pulling him to his feet. Without his hands, Hannibal is left to undress him the rest of the way. He turns Peter in the circle of his arms and slides his hands down Peter's shoulders, his biceps, gently cups his forearms, and then flattens his hands to Peter's stomach.

He puts his teeth against Peter's neck and thinks of splitting him open and feeding Peter his own gut. "Hades kidnapped Persephone," he says, growling the words into Peter's ear as he unbuttons and unzips Peter's slacks, guiding them over and down his thighs along with his underwear. Peter doesn't step out of them, as Hannibal doesn't allow him to step away.

Peter turns his head, kisses Hannibal's jaw. "Persephone is Hades' queen," he says. Hannibal closes his eyes and shivers when he feels Peter lean against him, heat and strength, and he slides his hand up Peter's chest, over his heart through his shirt.

"Is that what you want?" Hannibal asks.

Peter licks his lips, tilts his head to expose his neck to Hannibal's mouth. Hannibal expects some other teasing, coy remark, or perhaps some piece of poetry to fall from Peter's lips, as he likes to indulge in Hannibal's conversational patterns.

Instead, he whispers, soft and strained; "Yes."

Hannibal lets out a soft growl and parts his jaws, laying another bite mark to Peter's tender, pink neck. Peter shivers, biting his lower lip, his fingers clenching and wrists rolling within the confines of the belt. Hannibal turns him and pushes him down over the edge of the bed and Peter falls into position easily, his elbows sinking into the duvet. Hannibal tugs his slacks and underwear down and off, and Peter sighs, his thighs spreading for Hannibal's gluttonous gaze.

Hannibal stands close to him, leaning over him and resting his weight against Peter's bruised skin as he reaches under him, undoing the buttons of his shirt and those around his wrists. Then, he shoves the shirt up, and Peter bows his head, and the shirt bunches around the belt in another layer of restraint. Even if Peter struggles free, he will have to wrestle with the clothing as well.

Hannibal smiles, presses his hands against the lines his claws left behind, over the welts from what he now suspects were left by Margot's riding crop and whatever else she uses to beat her Mason-suit until he cries. Hannibal is sure he looks beautiful, his expressive and changing eyes bright with tears that stain his face and season his skin.

Hannibal touches Peter's thighs, pushes his thumbs against the red marks of rope, the bruises from his flogger. Peter moans and arches into the touch, his bare back flexing, shoulders tensing up with strain. His upper lip twitches in a barely-restrained snarl.

He moves away to the bedside table and retrieves the bottle of lubricant. With Peter's promise to spend the night, Hannibal knows he will have many opportunities to indulge in the 'unrefined' things he and Peter enjoy so much, but right now his chest is burning and he aches to conquer whatever unsoiled ground Peter offers him. He will overrun Zama, crucify this disciple of Christ, and spirit Persephone away into the underworld to live with him forever.

Peter trembles when he hears the bottle open, and then Hannibal pauses.

He sets it down and puts his hands back on Peter's flesh. "Onto the bed," he whispers, and Peter gasps like the words were a physical blow, knees buckling as he puts his fingers in the duvet and hauls himself onto the bed. It's lovely in its uncoordinated design, flawless in its lack of grace. Peter is affected, by whatever terribly-kept secret they're not allowed to share with each other, and Hannibal can see the veneer melting away to reveal the broken, crumbling arch.

He sighs, and takes off his suit jacket, setting it over the back of one of his chairs. "Roll onto your back," he says, and Peter obeys with another whine. He's sinfully beautiful, his cock laying hard and weeping onto his stomach, his cheeks and chest flushed, his eyes glazed and dark. Hannibal unbuttons his waistcoat and loosens his tie, takes them off to join the jacket, and rolls his sleeves up to his elbows.

He takes off his shoes and socks and climbs into place between Peter's thighs, sliding his hands down the soft innards of him, and Peter looks at him like he's seeing the face of God.

Hannibal smiles, and takes the lubricant bottle in hand again. He pours some onto his fingers, getting them slick, and then sets the bottle to one side and forces Peter's thighs farther apart, so that he has room to curl his hand and press his first finger against Peter's hole.

Now, he can see Peter's face. Peter's jaw flexes, very Will-like, and he clenches his eyes tightly shut. He lifts his hands to his hair, puts the belt and shirt behind his head, claws at his own neck as he arches into Hannibal's touch, just as eager to have Hannibal inside of him as he always has been.

Hannibal prowls over him, cups his jaw, and drags him into a kiss as his finger sinks deep and curls up. Peter shivers underneath him, and pulls his hands free from his own head to hook them behind Hannibal's neck.

"Please," he whispers, presses the desperate word against Hannibal's warm mouth. He twists his hands and Hannibal can feel the welts on his fingertips against his nape. "Please, Hannibal, I need you."

 _Need_. It's such a simple word, but it hits Hannibal like a blow behind his eyes. He is used to people becoming dependent on him, indulges in fostering a bond that is as strong as it is one-sided, but with Peter, it doesn't feel one-sided at all. It feels that, with every desperate declaration and every tremble to his breath, every stutter on his tongue, Peter is tugging Hannibal by a string, there's a lure caught behind his ribs.

It's desire. It's need. And Hannibal runs to answer his mate's call.

He pushes a second finger into Peter, unwilling to damage him even though Peter delights in Hannibal's torture. Peter growls and kisses him again, fists his hands tight in Hannibal's hair, as wild and wanton as the best whores of Sodom. He invites Hannibal's wrath, delights in his monster.

Hannibal growls against his mouth and, with his clean hand, unbuttons his suit pants and pushes them down without bothering with the zipper. He wraps a hand around his cock and strokes it slowly, aching with something he can't quite name, outraged at the thought that he hasn't pierced this beautiful man yet.

He will treasure this memory, when Peter and Will and Mason are gone.

He pulls his fingers out, slides his unclean hand through Peter's hair, and pushes at the back of his thighs. Peter shifts under him, ready and willing, and Hannibal guides his cock against Peter's hole and pushes inside.

Peter moans, loud and low, baring his teeth when Hannibal kisses him again. Hannibal grunts, forcing his cock deep into Peter, suddenly, just to hear him gasp and drink in the little whimper that sits in the base of his throat.

His arms are tense, tight around Hannibal's neck, and he wraps his legs around Hannibal's waist, every part of him angled to accept Hannibal as deeply as he can. And Hannibal sinks into him, his nails in Peter's flank, his hand tight in Peter's hair, and drags him down.

Hannibal pulls back from the kiss, trembling, sweat dampening his skin where Peter is touching him. Peter meets his gaze when their foreheads touch, noses brushing, sweet and gasping underneath him as Hannibal starts to move, and then Hannibal closes his eyes and ducks his head and licks Peter's damp neck, breathes in his sweat, his musk, and opens his mouth wide to suck a dark bruise on Peter's throat.

" _Yes_ ," Peter growls. Hannibal can taste the sweetness of his blood. He bites down harder and Peter moans, sounding almost frantic. "Yes, _God_ , Hannibal – fucking do it. I know you want to."

Hannibal growls, puts both hands on Peter's sweaty flanks to hold him down. He resists out of stubbornness more than anything else.

"Please," Peter begs. His hands are harsh on Hannibal's back, sharper without his suit jacket and waistcoat to shield him. This is the most unclothed he's ever been with Peter and he gets the impression that this is by design, as well. Peter will shed his skins, his layers, expose him like Hannibal wants to expose Peter's monster. Mutually assured destruction.

Hannibal wants to. He wants to sink his teeth in deeper, harsher, wants to feel Peter's skin split under his teeth, wants to taste his sweetness from the source. He bites down more harshly and Peter flinches, shivering. His cock is pressed tight between their bellies and Hannibal knows it will stain his clothes. Ownership, the beast marking its master.

Peter puts a hand in his hair and Hannibal shudders at the bite of Peter's belt against his neck. "Please," he whispers again, his voice catching. He sounds so sweet, so plaintive, like a child begging for a sweet, like a dog panting for scraps from his master's hand.

Hannibal thrusts in, chasing the tight heat of Peter's body, aching somewhere between his heart and his stomach. His nails feels wet, more than just sweat will be under them by the time they're done.

Peter tilts his head back, bares more of his neck for Hannibal, and lets out a sweet, needy sound. "Please," he begs, one more time; "Hannibal -."

Hannibal growls, clenches his eyes tightly shut, and thrusts in one more time. Peter's body welcomes him, clings to him desperately. His orgasm rushes out of him, he digs his knees into the bed, wanting to go _deeper_ , stain Peter on the inside. His jaw clenches and he feels himself bite down, hard enough to split skin, and Peter's blood floods his mouth.

It's one of the most powerful orgasms in his life. He doesn't clamp down and tear, mindful of the fact that he could do real damage if he did. Peter lets out a high-pitched sound, too enraptured to be a scream of pain, too satisfied for the curse that half-forms in the noise. If Hannibal didn't know any better, he'd call it a howl.

He presses his lips to the slowly-oozing bite mark on Peter's neck, licks over the marks of his teeth, the scabs already half-forming, and suckles Peter's sex-sweet blood as he feels Peter go still. He shakes, runs his nails through Hannibal's hair, and Hannibal presses him down as Peter arches, jerks with his orgasm. Hannibal feels warmth and wetness against his chest through his shirt, feels Peter bear down around him so suddenly and tightly that it forces Hannibal's softening cock out of him, and Peter clings to him and moans, like he can't bear to let go of any part of Hannibal's warmth.

Hannibal pulls back, lifts a hand to remove Peter's hands over his head. There are tears in Peter's eyes, pain forcing them there. His neck is red, and Hannibal licks his lips, tasting his blood. The bite isn't deep, and Hannibal didn't tear any of his flesh away, but there's blood on the duvet and staining Peter's sweaty skin.

Peter looks up at him, wide-eyed, slack, and then he rears up and wraps his hands in Hannibal's shirt, and kisses him with the same passion a man might have when leaving his lover for war. He doesn't flinch from the taste of his blood in Hannibal's mouth. He licks Hannibal's teeth, sucks on his lower lip, smears his blood between them until it coats their jaws, wolves sharing in a kill.

Hannibal is breathing heavily, too affected to speak, stunned into silence. Peter doesn't seem to mind. He kisses Hannibal like the taste of blood in his mouth is sating the hunger of a thousand years. Eventually Hannibal recovers, and indulges Peter's need, kissing him back and pressing him down into the mattress.

"Thank you," Peter whispers when he's allowed his air, raw and hoarse. His voice sounds like he's been screaming, his injured throat flexes and shines in the light in Hannibal's bedroom. He looks delicious, that same fine feast, and Hannibal leans down and licks over the bite mark again.

Peter flinches, but doesn't make Hannibal stop. His shoulders are trembling and when Hannibal kisses him, there's salt on his lips. Tears. He can smell them, see them running down Peter's face. There's no fear, very little pain beyond what is instinctive. He looks at Hannibal in the same way Hannibal imagines the disciples looked at Jesus after his resurrection, when they put their fingers in the holes in his hands and saw the wound from the lance in his side.

" _Thank you_ ," he says again, and this time Hannibal isn't entirely sure it's Peter who says it. But there is one thing for certain: Margot was right.

He looks so pretty when he cries.

~

"Tell me how you met this surrogate."

Margot smiles, cocking her head to one side. "He's mine," she says, childishly, like an older sibling holding a toy above her little brother's head. "You can't have him, Doctor Lecter."

Hannibal smiles, and looks down at his nails. He'd cleaned them meticulously, but imagines he can still see the lines of red from Peter's blood under them, where he'd marked his flanks and hips, then his neck. By the end of the night, Peter had barely been able to stand, too dazed and trembling to redress himself.

He'd spent the night in Hannibal's bed, a deliriously grateful supplicant to his god, and when Hannibal had let him go, he'd kissed Hannibal for so long in the front hall that Hannibal had been worried they'd consume all the air in the world before Peter stopped.

"I'm merely curious," Hannibal says lightly. "From what you've told me, you are not allowed many freedoms since attacking your brother."

Margot clucks her tongue again and shrugs, pursing her lips and looking towards the window. "We met at a party," she says. "A masquerade my brother threw to celebrate the anniversary of our father's death."

How morbid. Hannibal hums.

"So you didn't see his face, at first?" he asks. "Or the face of your friend who introduced you?"

"No, but I knew who she was," Margot replies quietly. Her cheeks turn pink and she looks down, smiling. "She's the one who…actually referred me to you. A colleague of yours, I believe. Ms. Du Maurier."

Hannibal's gaze snaps back up. Margot isn't looking at him, still focused on her hands, but Hannibal feels his brain stutter to a halt, and then slam into overdrive.

"Yes," Hannibal says. "She is a trusted friend of mine."

Margot nods. "I like her voice," she says. "It's very soothing. And so was his."

"I'm curious how the subject of your current relationship came up," Hannibal adds. "If you met at a party, I imagine there wasn't time to discuss such things. Or did it happen by accident?"

Margot shrugs. "I suppose it just happened," she says. "Ms. Du Maurier introduced us, and then she left to mingle. I was left alone with him. I'm usually nervous around strange men, I think I have a right to be," she adds defensively, as though expecting Hannibal to scold her for her wariness. Hannibal has no intention of doing so.

When he doesn't respond, she takes a breath and continues; "But he was sweet. Charming. I felt at ease around him instantly. He asked me if I was sad for my father, and we laughed over my brother celebrating his death, and not his life." She smiles, and shrugs again. "I wanted to be around him more. I liked being around him. It felt like he should have been my brother, you know? Like he was exactly what I needed him to be."

Hannibal understands completely.

"He gave me his number after the party, and I called him, and he came. Seeing him without his mask was strange, but he was…approachable. He looked like any other man, but he wasn't any other man, and he just seemed to know what I needed. I was giving him a tour of the pig pens and he stepped into an empty one, there was this branding iron sitting there. I remember Mason threatening me with it once."

She swallows, hesitates, and her fingers curl. "He held it out to me and told me, if I wanted to hit him with it, I could. And I knew it wasn't some weird, gross sexual thing. He asked me to do it because he knew I wanted to do it."

"This sounds like a remarkable young man," Hannibal murmurs.

Margot nods. "I have no idea how he knew," she says. "Maybe Ms. Du Maurier told him a little of my situation, I'm not sure. But I beat him, in that pen. I hit him over and over again, until he started bleeding, until he couldn't move…. When he started to cry, I almost stopped, but he told me I could keep going if I wanted to."

"And did you?" Hannibal asks. "Want to?"

"It felt like he was begging me," Margot says. Her eyes have gotten bright, unshed tears forming in the corners. She sucks in a breath and lifts her eyes to the ceiling, trying to blink them away. "He didn't ask me to stop, and I didn't, and then he…he spoke to me and it sounded like my brother, and he told me he loved me, and he'd never leave me, and I…"

She stops, taking in a shaky breath, and fans her face to stop the tears falling. She looks away and curls her fingers and clicks her knuckles against her teeth. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "I don't know why I'm so upset."

"People like this conjure strong emotions in us," Hannibal says. Margot nods, absently. "Your brother's surrogate offers you an outlet for your anger, and at the same time, makes you feel loved. Adored, even."

"I suppose," Margot says.

"I admire the solution you've found for yourself, Margot," Hannibal says gently. She regards him, wide-eyed. "Although I will add that it, unfortunately, does not seem sustainable. It will not solve the root problem of your anger."

She nods, swallowing harshly. "I know." She sucks in another unsteady breath. The tears, it seems, have been beaten back into submission. "I know I'll have to deal with Mason. The real one. Eventually."

Hannibal smiles. "Just remember my advice," he says, and she nods again.

Now that Hannibal has met Charles, and seen Tobias' end, he believes he is starting to understand. Will, or Peter, or whoever he calls himself, services his clients' needs, and when they need him no more, he fades away. When and if Margot manages to kill her brother, she will have no more need for her surrogate, and another person suit will be thrown onto the fire and reveal more of the true persona.

Hannibal is putting Will back together, piece by piece. He is quite enjoying this little puzzle.

But, Bedelia is now tied to two of the person suits. If there was anyone left to ask, Hannibal is sure he may have found a connection between her, Charles, and Tobias as well.

Peter had told him he didn't have a selection process. Perhaps, with Bedelia finding his clients for him, he has no need to.

He drums his nails along the edge of his notebook, swallows and runs his tongue over his teeth. He stills tastes Peter's blood in his mouth.

~

"You promised me you would tell me why you wanted the sleeping aid, Will."

Will nods, jittery and frantic. He has the air of an escaped convict, afraid that an any second the police will catch up with him and put him back in handcuffs.

Hannibal's bite mark is stark on his neck, a large black bruise running from the bottom of his jaw to the edge of his collar. He wonders what Will told his friends at the FBI – if he said he was bitten by one of his dogs, or if anyone even asked.

Of course they would ask. Will is the kind of person who inspires questions.

Will licks his lips, sucks in a breath through his teeth, and looks away.

"I…feel my nerves clicking like roller coaster cogs pulling up to the inevitable long plunge," he whispers. Hannibal cocks his head to one side, frowning.

"Quick sounds," he says. "Quickly ended."

"There's so much death," Will says, and sits forward and rubs his hands over his face. "I think…. I keep thinking about 'S'. And I think about…Tobias, and Franklyn, and Douglas, and Archer, and -." He stops, and Hannibal sighs through his nose. "I feel like I see 'S' in my dreams. He took a life."

"You've taken a life," Hannibal says.

"So have you," Will bites back. Defensive. Cutting. His eyes flash to Hannibal, then away.

Hannibal leans forward, his elbows on his knees. "I understand that Tobias and Franklyn were losses for you," he says. Will flinches. "Or not for you, but for Charles. You're grieving, Will. Not for the life _you_ have taken, but for the life that was taken from you."

Will rubs a hand over his mouth, scratches at the edges of the stain where his blood had been smeared between Hannibal and Peter's mouth. Hannibal remembers the exact place where the line of blood ended. Will is growing his beard in again, like he wants to cover it up.

"If Charles could have survived Tobias, so can you. You could untangle yourself from the madness and the murder, clear your mind."

Will scoffs. "My mind has never been clear." He raises his eyes, meets Hannibal's for a brief moment, then looks down and lets out a plaintive noise. Hannibal's gut clenches at the sound. Will's hands flatten out over the armrests of the chair. "Charles was angry," he whispers, confesses softly. "He hated Tobias for what he'd done. But Franklyn…didn't deserve to die."

Hannibal cocks his head to one side, and wonders if that counts as a confession. "We both know the unreality of taking a life, of people who die when we have no other choice. We know in those moments they’re not flesh, but light and air and color."

A smile crosses Will's face, strained and confused. "Isn't that what it is to be alive?"

"Do you feel alive, Will?" Hannibal asks.

Will scratches the back of his neck, up over Hannibal's bite, and swallows. "I feel like I'm fading. Like a piece of me is just… _gone_. I don't know what to do without him."

Hannibal nods. "Charles was important to you," he says. Will swallows again. "Are you afraid for your other person suits?" He bites his lower lip and nods. "When your nightmares come, is that what you see?"

"I see a monster," Will replies. "I see them devoured whole. And I laugh, but it's not me laughing. And it's not me eating them, either, but it _is_ me at the same time."

The dominant, original personality is stirring.

Hannibal takes a deep breath through his nose. "Peter told me you don't talk to each other," he says. Will's eyes dart to one side and his fingers curl. "When you feel these dreams coming to you, or you feel like you're fading, I want you to imagine that they're in the room with you. I want you to see their faces, listen to their voices. I want you to address them by name."

Will huffs. "That sounds an awful lot like schizophrenia, Doctor Lecter."

"We have established that you are sound of mind, Will. Reasonably so, at least. I believe it will be a good exercise for you. If you give your person suits names, if you allow them to exist outside of the immediate needs of your clients, you give them power. You give them life."

Will's fingers curl more tightly. "I don't think they should -." He stops, swallows harshly, and grits his teeth. "My thoughts are not tasty, Doctor Lecter," he says. Hannibal nods, recalling the first time he met Will and he said the same thing. "Some of these suits have even less…savory appetites."

Some of them are hungry.

"Then perhaps it is time to consider whether you will let yourself be devoured, or consume your predators in turn."

Will lifts his eyes, cocks his head to one side. A flash of _something_ crosses his face. His lips twitch in a smile. Hannibal smiles back.

_Hello, Five._

Then, Five is gone, and Will returns. He presses his lips together and turns his head away, looks out the window, bares the bruised and bitten side of his neck. "…Perhaps," he says, and it's a quiet concession, and Hannibal smiles again.


	8. Chapter 8

_We've been here before, so, so tied up – you want something more?_   
_Lover, best friend, my worst enemy?_   
_You know I won't let you get away._   
_I get you to swerve right outta the fast lane, you still got champagne running through your veins._   
_You dare me to step up and challenge you?_   
_Neither one of us can stand to lose._

So Tied Up – Cold War Kids

~

THE RIPPER AND 'S' – MURDER HUSBANDS CAUSE PANIC FOR BALTIMORE NATIVES

                DEAR readers, as you know, I have made it a top priority of mine to determine the identity of _S_ , who has made a name for themselves as the Chesapeake Ripper's most vocal and adoring fan. Although _S_ is elusive, posting their letters on the darkweb in the small hours of the morning, it seems that _S_ has finally caught the attention of the Ripper.

                Last week, I was contacted by the FBI's lead investigators for the Ripper case – Director Jack Crawford, Special Agent Will Graham, and Doctor Hannibal Lecter, who has been assisting with the criminal profile. It appears _S_ has finally caught their eye, as well, and the FBI is incorporating their search for _S_ into their investigation.

                But that's not the most interesting part of this play, dear readers. After I conducted interviews with the Baltimore Police, I was able to find out that the horrific murder of Tobias Budge, Franklyn Froideveaux, and Douglas Jones – perhaps better known as the human chess game – was not only a tragic and terrible crime, but _S_ 's debut into the world of theatrical murder. It appears that _S_ is not sticking to writing about killing anymore, but has grown bolder.

                The FBI were investigating Tobias Budge as a lead on the Cello Man murder at the Baltimore Opera House, which sparked _S_ 's first rage-filled letter. A second one was posted the morning that the bodies were discovered at the bank.

                Did _S_ know Tobias, and take revenge for the murder of Archer Vance? Did the thought of the Ripper's namesake being slandered spur him into action? Nothing is for sure yet, dear readers, but I believe Baltimore is about to see a fresh wave of blood in its streets.

When _S_ and the Ripper find each other – if they haven't already – I fear for the future of our great city.

Freddie Lounds, journalist for _TattleCrime._

~

"Told you she wouldn't keep her mouth shut," Will growls, locking Hannibal's iPad and handing it back to him.

Jack sighs. "Yes, but we have a tracker on her website now. If 'S' reads it, we'll know."

"Thousands of people read _TattleCrime_ , Jack," Will replies. "It won't be easy."

"Yes," Hannibal adds lightly. "And let us hope that the Ripper is put off by 'S's enthusiasm, and not encouraged by it."

Will turns his head to look at him, a strangely pinched expression on his face. He looks almost offended. "The bank murder wasn't _for_ the Ripper," he says. "I told you both 'S' doesn't… _think_ like that. He wouldn't do anything to insult him."

Jack raises an eyebrow. "So what do you call the bank murder?" he asks, skeptical.

Will shakes his head, winces, digs his nails into the thin armrests of the chair in Jack's office. In comparison to how he sits in Hannibal's study – whether he's Peter or Will – he looks too large, like he feels as though he's taking up too much space. He can't meet Jack's eyes, they're focused entirely on his knees, like an ashamed child.

"'S' felt like the Ripper was in trouble," he says quietly. "There was another murderer, another killer, and if we caught him, he might tell us something about the Ripper. Tobias knew too much. So 'S' killed him."

"He's in love," Hannibal adds. He looks at Will and Will nods. "Do you think the Ripper feels the same?"

"You told me he wrote a love note to 'S'," Jack growls. "The woman in the church. Tabitha Schumacher."

Will nods again, and licks his lips. Hannibal's bite mark is huge and dark on the side of his neck. He's not trying to hide it beyond what his normal clothes might. Every now and again he can see Jack's eyes drawn to it, curious but too polite to broach the subject. Besides, men like Jack don't want to know the kinds of things men like Will do to get such marks on them.

"The Ripper, if he even feels something like love, feels it for 'S'. But it's not…" He frowns, sits back in his chair. His fingers tremble. "It's not selfless love. I think he just wants to see what will happen."

"What?" Jack asks.

"Tell me, Jack, if you went into your backyard one day and found an abandoned wolf puppy, what would you do?" Jack frowns and tilts his head. "You know it's a wild animal. You know you should release it, let nature do what it may. But it's so small, and so vulnerable. Perhaps you think you can nurse it until it's old enough to be released. And you tell yourself that is what you'll do. But then the puppy bonds with you, and it waits for you when you come home, and it defends you when someone tries to break into your house, and you think to yourself…" He stops, sighing. "You think 'This animal is dangerous, and he's wild, but he's mine'."

"So, the Ripper regards 'S' like an abandoned wolf," Jack repeats.

Will sighs. "Not all of us are gentle owners, Jack. Some animals' loyalty is won with affection and care, some of it through abuse and force. The Ripper has found a wolf in his backyard, and he knows the wolf wants to stay, and wants to live with him. It's up to him to decide where to go from there."

Jack frowns, and his eyes go between Hannibal and Will. "I think you're making each other more cryptic," he says, and Hannibal can tell he's joking, but Will's smile is tight. "Talking in metaphors and poetry. Alright, so now what?"

"If the Ripper cares for 'S', we'll find out," Will says, and he turns to look at Hannibal. His expression is one of acquiescence – he's waiting for Hannibal to agree, add to, or argue his profile. But Hannibal feels, and sees, something else in his eyes. It feels like a challenge.

_I'm howling for you. Come out and play._

"Yes," Hannibal replies, nodding. Jack sits back, apparently satisfied. "And if not, 'S' will surely post another letter in an attempt to goad him on."

A flicker of a smile crosses Will's face. Pleased. Challenging.

"So, we wait," Jack says with an exaggerated huff. "Perfect. My favorite."

"Don't despair, Jack," Will says, and smiles in Jack's direction. "I'm sure we won't have to wait long."

~

"I'm worried about Mason."

Hannibal lifts his gaze, an eyebrow raised. "Your brother?" he asks.

Margot shakes her head. She's on her feet, and staring out of the window. She's out of the sling now, which is good, but still moves stiffly. Hannibal suspects she stopped wearing the sling simply out of spite. She does not want to appear weak.

"No, my – my fake Mason," she replies. "The surrogate."

Hannibal nods, his attention caught. Speaking with Margot about Will's Mason-suit is far more interesting than Franklyn when he'd spoken about Tobias. Hannibal wonders how much more attention he might have paid, had he known Charles was in the mix as well.

Though it hardly matters. Charles, Franklyn, and Tobias are no more.

Margot bites the side of her lower lip and sits down, leaning forward like she's trying to get Hannibal to physically comfort her. "I saw him yesterday," she says, "and he was…different."

"How is that?" Hannibal asks.

"I can't really explain it," she replies, frowning. "I mean, technically nothing was different. But there were…marks on him. Marks I didn't make." Hannibal cocks his head to one side. "It looks like someone tried to rip his throat out, and there were these…claw marks…like he'd been attacked by an animal."

"This surrogate you interact with seamlessly ingratiated himself into your life," Hannibal says, "and you said he seemed to know exactly what you needed." Margot nods. "Had you not considered that he might be doing this for other people as well?"

"Oh, he told me as much," Margot says, nodding. Hannibal hums. "The third time I saw him, after the tour of the pens, I just wanted to sit with him. I was nervous, and I wanted to make sure that what I'd done was okay, and that I hadn't damaged him too badly, and that he didn't think I was a monster. So, we just sat on the patio, looking out over the gardens." She takes a breath. "He told me he has other friends he does this for. I didn't mind."

'Friends', not 'clients'. Interesting.

She falls silent, and Hannibal lets her sit and gather her thoughts. There are tears gathering at the corners of her eyes again.

"I'm just scared," she finishes. "I don't know what I'd do without him, and I'm worried that…what if his other friends are rougher with him than I am?"

Hannibal regards her for a moment. "You care for him," he says.

She swallows harshly. "I suppose," she says, working the ring on one of her fingers around and around, before she curls them into a fist. "I think it's hard not to care for someone when you know they would do anything for you."

"And you believe this surrogate would?"

She raises her eyes. "Yes," she says.

The silence hangs between them like a heavy curtain. It's a growling, tense thing. A wolf stalking a deer through the undergrowth.

Hannibal smiles, slowly. "I think we ought to end our session now, Margot, before I am ethically obligated to do anything to stop you."

She returns his smile, as gleeful as a child being walked into a candy store. "Yes, Doctor Lecter. I think that would be best."

~

Hannibal smiles in thanks when Bedelia hands him a glass of white wine, before she leads the way into her living room where they normally conduct their sessions. Nothing about her has changed. Her hair still sits in artful curls around her face, creating a shield in the form of distraction from people looking into her eyes too deeply. She is wearing a grey, shimmery outfit; pencil skirt and blazer, with a white blouse underneath, her shoes the same color as her skin. It gives the impression that she's fading, makes the blonde in her hair all the more vibrant.

She draws attention to very specific parts of herself when she greets Hannibal. Namely, as far away from her throat as possible.

"You seem different," she says, as she sits in her usual place and Hannibal takes his seat. He unbuttons the jacket of his suit and folds one leg over the other, resting his interlaced fingers on his thigh. His wine sits on the table beside the chair, untouched.

"I have…had a lot on my mind," Hannibal replies.

"Oh?" she says, one eyebrow arching sharply. "I thought I had suggested a remedy for that."

Hannibal nods, pursing his lips, and sets his eyes over her shoulder, towards the window. "Yes," he says. "The toy you gave me was very shiny and very fun to play with."

Bedelia pauses. Hannibal puts his gaze back on her and sees her take a sip of wine, her swallow overly-loud in the quiet room. "'Was'?" she repeats.

Hannibal fights back a smile. "Tell me, how did you first meet this man?" he asks.

"This is _your_ therapy session, Hannibal, and _I_ am your psychiatrist. Not the other way around."

"I want to talk about him," Hannibal says. Bedelia fixes him with a cold look, the clench of her jaw doing nothing to hide the flicker of panic in her eyes. "I have been finding out some very interesting things. You were right – I find him utterly captivating." She nods, her shoulders relaxing somewhat. "I'm curious, though: why did you think I would find him so interesting?"

She hums and sits back, crossing her legs. Hannibal is reminded of how Peter casually reclined in his living room, the picture of delicate and open temptation. If Peter is the nymph, Bedelia is the Goddess of the lake, ready to strike down any man who dares touch her children with their predatory hands.

"You like to pick people apart, Hannibal," she says slowly, back to her quirk of thinking over every word a thousand times before she gives it life; "I knew he would at least provide a diverting puzzle."

Diverting. An interesting word for it.

He tilts his head to one side and considers his next words. He cannot, legally, bring up Margot or anything she has told him in their sessions, so he cannot ask about the Vergers or the Mason-suit. But Charles, and Tobias, and Franklyn are open topics of conversation. That is, assuming she had something to do with that, as well, which she may not.

"I think he has opened me up to new possibilities," Hannibal says. "New opportunities."

Bedelia tilts her head.

"I have begun assisting the FBI with the criminal profile of the Ripper, as well as any other murders. I have become close with Jack Crawford, and with another man. His name is Will Graham."

Bedelia's expression doesn't change, but Hannibal sees her swipe her thumb across the condensation on her wine glass. She doesn’t say anything.

"Will Graham is…troubled," Hannibal finishes.

She hums, a ghost of a smile touching her face. "And that troubles you beyond professional concern?"

Hannibal sighs, sitting back in his chair and unfolding his legs so both feet are touching the ground. "I see his madness, and I want to contain it. Like an oil spill."

Bedelia nods. "Oil is valuable. What value does Will Graham's madness have for you?"

Hannibal smiles. "You suggest that I am more fascinated with the madness, than the man? That I might find the puzzle of him more 'diverting' than who he actually is?"

"Well," Bedelia replies, "do you?"

"No," Hannibal says. He swallows back the taste of Peter's blood on his tongue and wonders why the clench of his own jaw reminds him so much of Will. "…Will realized early on that he saw things differently than other people. _Felt_ things differently."

"So did you," Bedelia replies.

Hannibal pauses, looks away from her again. "I…see myself in Will," he says. Or, rather, Peter reflects Hannibal's desires back onto himself. But Bedelia will not say that she knows Peter – she probably doesn't know him, at least not by that name.

"And do you see yourself in his madness?"

"I believe madness can be a medicine for the modern world," he replies. "If you take it in moderations, it's beautiful."

"You overdose, and there are…unfortunate side effects."

Yes, _unfortunate_ things do tend to happen when madness and art are combined.

Hannibal shifts his weight and reaches for his wine glass, taking a sip. "Side effects can be temporary," he says lightly. "They can be a boost to our psychological immune systems, to help fight the existential crises of normal life."

Bedelia smiles, airy and pleased. "Will Graham doesn't present you with problems from normal life."

"No," Hannibal admits. "He doesn't."

"What does he present you with?"

Hannibal pauses, and considers his answer. "The opportunity for friendship."

Bedelia tilts her head to one side. Her hair catches the light. "Is Will Graham your patient, Hannibal?" she asks.

"Why do you say that?"

"I've hardly known you to waste your time on anyone that isn't a pet project. I assume, if he is as brilliantly mad as you say, that you were asked to monitor his madness while he assists with the Ripper." Hannibal doesn't answer. "When it comes to Will Graham, if your impulse is to step forward, force yourself to take a step back."

"Is that the same advice you would give me with my toy?"

Bedelia's eyes flash. "…Should I?" she murmurs.

"I am watching the most intricate puzzle dissolve itself before my eyes. If I do nothing, the oil will spill over the edges and flood the way. If I intercede, I run the risk of damaging the design. But how can I simply sit and watch?"

Bedelia smiles. "Sometimes all we can do is watch."

"You didn't watch," Hannibal says, and sets his wine glass back down. "You gave me a toy. A toy, I'm beginning to suspect, that is being shared by others under your care." Bedelia hums, and lifts her chin. "I suspect Will's viewpoint is beginning to affect me. I am starting to feel suspicious of certain things."

Bedelia lets out a quiet laugh, low enough that it hides the nervousness. Almost. Bedelia is a woman of _almosts_. "'Suspicious'?" she repeats.

Hannibal purses his lips and lifts his eyes to the ceiling for a moment. "Hypothetically," he begins, and meets her eyes again, "if you knew someone was…dangerous, what would you do to stop them?"

"Hypothetically," Bedelia replies archly, and Hannibal nods. "Anything that I could."

"And if you knew you could not stop them yourself, you would hire someone else who could. Or, hypothetically, if you knew they could not be stopped, you would try and find someone to sacrifice, to buy yourself more time."

She swallows.

"You would do anything. Including giving them a toy," Hannibal says with a smile. Bedelia presses her lips together, her thumb nervously tracing lines along the part of her wine glass where bowl becomes stem. Hannibal thinks of Charles' comment about Scheherazade, and he cocks his head to one side. "Who else have you given a toy to?"

"That's none of your concern," Bedelia says, her words quick and sharp. She's scared. Hannibal can smell the way her foundation and perfume is caking with the beginnings of sweat.

"You throw this man into the path of people you consider dangerous," he says quietly. "What protection does he owe you?"

"Hannibal," she says. A warning.

"What name did he give you?" Hannibal asks, and Bedelia stands. "Is he a patient as well?"

"This session is over," she says archly, gesturing towards the door as a sign that Hannibal should leave. Hannibal looks down at her shoes, aggravated, but he stands and buttons his suit jacket again. "I will see you at our next appointment."

"Goodbye," he says, and she swallows again and ushers him out of the door, closing the door quietly. The sound of the lock turning, however, is loud. Hannibal slides his hands into his pockets and squints up at the bright sky, before he sighs through his nose and walks towards his car.

~

One finger points to each hour on the clock. The '5' is left without a finger, as is the '12'.

"Twelve. The end and the beginning of the hour, and the day, and the time. Five…?" A frown. "I don't understand."

A woman's body hangs, suspended from the low ceiling. She's facing the ceiling, her head hanging back so that her hair falls in a shower of orange curls and brushes the floor. Her hands have been cut off. One of them, fingerless, has her eyes in its palm, the other one has been shoved down her throat and sticks out of her open mouth.

Her mouth has been cut like Tabitha's in the church, a perpetual scream. Her body is clothed, there's no need to expose her when her eyes and her mouth had been the things leaking such disgusting things, seeing too much and saying too much with too little sense.

It is not Freddie Lounds. It's a surrogate.

Her skull has been cut open, and her brain sits on her stomach, which has been opened and removed to make room. Her intestines have been removed.

"Gutless."

The word is hissed, forced out behind a snarl. A hand reaches out, stops just shy of the woman's foot. Her body is angled so that her feet point towards a door, leading to another room. He bites his lower lip and steps around her, careful not to dislodge the clock of fingers on the floor, and goes to the second door.

It's cracked open, revealing bright light beyond, and he pushes against it, allowing himself inside. A smaller room lies beyond, utterly barren like it was one day destined to be a storage unit.

He freezes, and gasps, eyes wide.

Four bodies face him, their heads bowed. They are all similar stature – male, same height, within twenty pounds of each other in weight. They are stripped bare, and stand in a line, tied to large posts to keep them upright, ropes around their necks, stomachs, and thighs.

He swallows, and goes to the first one. He carefully lifts the man's head with gloved hands so he can see his face. His lips have been sewn to force him into a permanent smile, his eyelids suffering the same treatment so that he is always seeing, always smiling. He has claw marks on his chest, there's a gaping hole in the center like someone tried to claw out his heart. He almost made it.

The second body has been flayed, stripped down and left to hang like a carcass in a butcher's shop. The pool of blood is largest here, the sprays of blood the longest and ugliest. This is pure rage, helpless anger, beating and whipping and destroying until there is nothing left. He knows this man lived for the longest, and suffered the most.

The third one, in the middle, has closed eyes, closed lips. There isn't a single blemish on the front of him, his arms are held in front of him like he's trying to cup water from a stream and raise it to his mouth. He looks almost serene, untouched and untouchable. A saint, a symbol of goodness and grace.

His back has been sliced open, the halves of skin wrapped around the post. He needs it to support himself. He does not hang from the suspensions like his friends, but relies on it completely to remain alive.

The fourth and last body is wet, drips of water still pooled at his feet and dampening his hair. His throat has been cut and his fingers have been sliced, four lines on each pad. His mouth is open in a permanent song.

The man steps back and looks down the line again. Then, he gets to the end, and smiles. There is a fifth post there, without a body. It does not stand upright, but juts forward like a lance, waiting to spear the next person through the heart and add to its collection. The wood is thirsty for blood, the iron screws in the bottom of the support are tight and dry and ache for tears and saliva to let them turn more easily.

He steps forward and wraps his hand around the post, his breathing unsteady. Then, he presses his palm against it, and kisses the back of his glove, and closes his eyes.

"I know," he says, quietly. "I understand, now."

~

FBI SILENT AS 'S' WRITES ANOTHER CHILLING PROMISE

                READERS, I fear we might hear about another string of brutal murders on the 11 o'clock news today. I did not find this letter on 'S's usual site. Instead, it was emailed to the generic inbox for _TattleCrime_ from a spoofed email address. 'S' is getting bolder.

                Below is the latest letter;

_I understand. I see clearly now._

_Please forgive me, my love. I was selfish, and I thought that I could be many things at once. But I can't. I know that now. I will devote everything that I am to you. Call for me and I will be there. Run from me and I will chase you. If you want to hunt me, I will be your willing prey._

_But I will be yours. Only yours. I swear._

_I love you._

_Happy hunting. S._

Freddie Lounds, journalist for _TattleCrime_.

~

"And now we go to Rob with the weather. Rob?"

"That's Cindy. Well, it looks like we might actually be due for some sun and warmer weather, _finally_. We have a warm front coming in from the West as you can see here, still some light showers in the Baltimore area, but I think it might be time to uncover the barbeques and get ready for spring time. With temperatures starting at fifty and rising from there, I think we may finally be seeing the start of spring. Back to you, Cindy."

"Thanks Rob. In other news, the tragic loss of the only son of Molson Verger and sole heir to the Verger meatpacking dynasty, Mason Verger, continues to make headlines across the state. Mason Verger had recently come to power after the death of his father, and was reported by board members to be a 'daring' individual with 'revolutionary' ideals. Many of you might remember his name from the family drama last month, where Mason's sister Margot accused him of physical abuse. Mason had been doing community service at the time, and since began a reformation program.

Mason Verger was found in his bedroom by one of his cleaning ladies. It appeared Mason had fallen into a ground-level tank in his room where he kept carnivorous eels. His sister, Margot, was quoted saying it was an 'unexpected, tragic loss'. She then announced that the Verger legacy would not be lost, however, as she made an official statement saying that she was pregnant."

"Seems like good timing," Rob says, off-screen.

Cindy laughs. "Margot Verger has taken over the Verger companies pending the birth of her child. Tune back in at noon and we'll have more details and a coroner's report. And now we'll jump over to Tony with sports."

Hannibal hums, closing out the window on his iPad, and sets it to one side. He drums his fingers on the armrest of his couch, his eyes on the fireplace.

"Well, well, Margot," he says lightly. "I suppose congratulations are in order."


	9. Chapter 9

_Lock me up. Criticize._   
_You don't analyze me 'cause you can see what I'm trying to be, trying to be._   
_I've been lost and I've been blinded by all the things that I've seen._   
_Overjoyed. Over you. Overnight. But that's what you do._

Lock Me Up – The Cab

~

Hannibal is called to Jack's office in the early hours of a Tuesday morning. He has no appointments, thankfully, but the drive is long and he feels a strange excitement in him, like animals when they sense weather is coming. He wouldn't call it restlessness, but he feels something forming, some half-shaped shadow in the darkness prowling around behind him, waiting for the strength to lunge.

He enters Jack's office and sees the man sitting behind his desk. He looks up and gestures for Hannibal to take a seat.

"We need to talk about Will," he says, before Hannibal can settle.

Hannibal hums, sitting back and lacing his fingers together. "Is he here?" he asks.

"He called out sick," Jack says, and Hannibal frowns, a flicker of worry stirring in him. "But this kind of conversation isn't really for his ears." Hannibal waits for Jack to say more, and the man sighs heavily and wipes a hand over his mouth. "Does he seem…alright, to you?"

Hannibal smooths out his expression and shifts his weight. "Yes," he replies. "As well as any man who regularly looks into the minds of serial killers can be."

"That doesn't help me, Doctor Lecter."

"Jack, you know I cannot breach the contract of doctor-patient confidentiality. If you're asking if I think he has said or done anything that I would be obliged to report to the police, I say 'No, he hasn't'." And this is not technically a lie – not that Jack would be able to tell if he is lying. Hannibal is far better at keeping a straight face than Jack is at seeing behind it.

Jack heaves another breath and sits back. He has a pen in his hand and taps it against the edge of his desk. "I'm worried about him," he says, and Hannibal nods once. "I think he might be losing his edge."

Hannibal raises an eyebrow. "How so?" he asks.

"I think he's wrong about 'S'," Jack replies. "I think 'S' is committing murders to try and catch the Ripper's attention, and I think he's succeeded. I think we're about to have two serial killers on our hands and I don't think Will's in the right frame of mind to sniff them out."

Hannibal is silent for a moment, watching Jack's face. Jack looks weary, like the father of a troubled teen who has been told his son skipped school, yet again, to hang out with a bad crowd. He cocks his head to one side. "There's been another murder," he says.

Jack nods. "Five bodies, this time. And one of them bore a striking resemblance to Freddie Lounds." Jack reaches to his side and takes a folder, handing it to Hannibal. Hannibal leans forward and takes it, opening it in his lap to see photographs from the crime scene. A woman suspended above a finger clock. Four bodies tied to posts all in a row.

Hannibal hums. "Does Will know about this one?"

"He called in sick before I could show him," Jack replies. "So unless he's read about it or heard about it on the news, then no." Jack pauses and gives Hannibal a moment to sift through the photographs, and the coroner's report for the deceased.

"So this happened last night?" Hannibal asks.

Jack shakes his head. "Time of death for all these people was about three days ago," Jack says. "They were only discovered last night, when a janitor was cleaning the building. Long weekend, you know how it is."

"This is…intricate," Hannibal says, his fingers lingering over the images of the clock. "This took a lot of time and forethought."

"Yes," Jack says, pressing his lips together, his expression grim. "I was hoping you might be able to give an analysis, in Will's absence."

Hannibal hums, looking through the photographs again. It's strange how different bodies look under the overexposure of forensic photography. The way blood congeals after a certain amount of time is almost ugly. Hannibal takes no delight in the decay of bodies – they smell, and rot, and soon after a kill the meat and organs become too poisonous to harvest.

He cocks his head to one side. "The five and the twelve are missing," he says. Jack nods. "In the bank murder, numbers played a role there, too."

"Yeah, we figured that part out. The Psalms that 'S' quoted in his blog post was Psalm fifty-five, verses twelve to fourteen." Hannibal nods. The numbers that Tobias' hands pointed to. And two fives. Interesting. He fights back a smile, knowing the expression would be too affectionate for his audience.

"Perhaps the number five is significant to him," Hannibal says lightly. "Five and 'S' look similar when written. And there were five bodies."

And, it occurs to Hannibal, the way Tobias, Franklyn, and Douglas were impaled…one might claim they looked like stick figures.

Hannibal fights back another smile. _Oh, Will, what a clever boy you are._

"If this is meant to be Freddie Lounds, it's obvious what he means," Hannibal says. "He took her eyes and stuffed her mouth. She's sightless and says too much. He doesn't like what she says about him in her articles, she doesn't like that she shares his words. He feels…possessive of them. And he put her brain in her guts, removing the intestines. She thinks with her gut, and gives no thought to how her actions and words affect those around her."

Jack huffs. "Sounds like Freddie."

"These men feel symbolic," Hannibal adds. "One of them is playing the fool. He smiles and sees too much, and is cast down for it. The other, an animal – no better than a pig. He is a sacrifice, a meal for the party. The third, a martyr – someone who cannot be touched, but has driven himself into the ground and cannot move without tearing himself apart. The fourth, a drowned singer, a musician. This last man is Ophelia, in love with a crazed man who ends up driving her to suicide. She frequently sings in _Hamlet_."

Jack is silent for a moment, and when Hannibal looks up, he appears troubled. "You got all that from these photos?" he asks.

Hannibal smiles and closes the folder. "I think being around Will has allowed me to access the mindset of a killer more readily. That, and the Ripper has a certain flair for the dramatic."

"You got that right," Jack replies darkly. He rubs his hand over his mouth again and sighs. "I'm worried about the fifth post."

"A thrusting lance," Hannibal says. "There is one more person in this mural. He's missing. Whatever vision the killer was trying to accomplish here, he can't."

"Why do you think that is?"

Hannibal shrugs, shaking his head. "I couldn't say. My talents, unfortunately, are no rival for Will's."

"There was another post from 'S', the night after the bodies were discovered. Here." He has another sheet of paper and he hands it to Hannibal. Hannibal takes it, reading over the words that he remembers seeing in Freddie Lounds' most recent article.

"I've read this on _TattleCrime_ ," he says. Then; "I find it interesting. If I didn't know any better, I'd say it wouldn't be unfair to suggest that Ms. Lounds knew about the murders before we did."

Jack nods. "It was a warning," he says. "'S' wanted her to know it was coming."

"He's getting bolder."

"Why _now_?" Jack demands, one hand, open-palmed, waving at his side. He flattens it over his mouth again and sighs. "'S' has been writing these letters for _months_ , and only now is he starting to really make his own statement. I don't understand."

Hannibal meets Jack's gaze steadily. Then, he presses his lips together and sets the piece of paper on top of the folder.

"I think, Jack, that you understand perfectly."

"Yes," Jack says. "But I don't want to admit it."

Hannibal smiles, a little upward turn of his mouth. "'S' knows who the Ripper is," he says. Jack's shoulders sag. "He's waiting, like a groom waits at the end of the aisle for his bride to appear." He pauses, looks down at the paper again, and drums his fingers against his thigh. "I've never known a man to be so in love."

"I don't call this 'love', Doctor Lecter," Jack bites out. "This is insanity."

Hannibal doesn't reply. Jack shakes his head again and straightens up. "Thank you. That's all I needed you for. I appreciate you taking the time to come here."

"Of course," Hannibal says. He stands and gives Jack another nod. "Let me know if you need me again." He exits Jack's office and closes the door behind him. Then, he lets the smile break free, and allows the excitement of a pending storm bubble in his chest.

~

He drives up and parks behind Will's car to a chorus of dogs barking. He gets out of his car and approaches the porch and knocks on the door. After a moment, he hears Will shushing his dogs, and the door cracks open.

Will looks healthy enough. His eyes are bright, and when he sees it's Hannibal they widen and he pauses, before he clears his throat and wraps his robe tighter around his body. "Hello, Doctor Lecter," he says quietly.

Hannibal smiles. "Hello, Will," he replies. Will's jaw clenches and he rolls his head to one side like he's trying to crack it. "Jack told me you were feeling unwell."

"Yeah," Will says. Then he takes a step back. "Please, come in."

Hannibal steps inside. Will's dogs are perched in a huddle around his fireplace, watching Hannibal with a wary mix of curiosity and aimless happiness at seeing another person who presents the opportunity for petting and treats. Will's eyes drop to the container in Hannibal's hands. He nods to it. "What's that?"

Hannibal holds it up. "Silkie chicken in a broth. A black boned bird, prized in China for its medicinal value since the seventh century. With wolfberries, ginseng, ginger, red dates, and star anise."

Will swallows, raising his eyebrows. "You made me chicken soup?" he asks.

Hannibal smiles. "Yes."

"Smells good," Will says, and then he straightens up. "I'll get bowls and spoons. Please, have a seat." He gestures to a small table by the window and Hannibal takes a seat. Will leaves to get the bowls and spoons from the kitchen, and when he returns Hannibal opens the container and ladles out a portion into each.

Will presses his lips together, dipping his spoon into the broth and taking a sip. The bruising on his throat looks better, and Hannibal sees few marks on his neck where his t-shirt sags down at the collar. They eat in silence for a long while under the watch of Will's dogs.

"I do hope you're feeling alright, Will," Hannibal says after a moment.

Will nods. "Think it's just the change in weather," he replies.

"Oh?" Hannibal asks. "Just the weather."

Will pauses, his shoulders tensing, and then he takes another bite. "Not sure what else it could be."

"Not stress?" Hannibal asks. "Or, perhaps, you are grieving."

Will raises his eyes. They're dark today, storm cloud blue. Hannibal meets his gaze readily, and then he smiles. "Have you been giving any thought to my suggestion from our last session?"

"Talking to people who aren't really there?" Will replies.

"Don't be coy, Will. We both know they're there. They have thoughts and feelings just as you do."

"Yes," Will replies with a short nod. His teeth grind together and he takes another bite of the soup, swallowing loudly. Then, he sets the spoon down in the bowl. "I feel wary talking about things like that with you, Doctor Lecter."

Hannibal cocks his head to one side. "Why is that?"

"Well, before I say anything, is this going to count as another session, or is anything I say going to be held against me?"

Hannibal frowns. "You're not in a court of law, Will," he says. "No one is here to hurt you, or persecute you. I come to you as a friend."

Will's brow furrows. He opens his mouth, closes it, and stares down at his bowl. "You consider us friends?" he asks, and his voice is a strange combination of weak and angry.

Hannibal nods. "Is there any reason why I wouldn't?"

"I think I'm more of a plaything to you," Will says. "You like Peter. Not me."

"That's not true," Hannibal replies. "I think I'd find something to admire in all of your person suits, not just the one you think is safest. Or the one you think suits me best. That is one of the tenants of friendship, Will – we don't have to agree on all things or always get along pleasantly to be friends."

Will huffs. "Now I must ask you not to be coy, Doctor Lecter. You don't have friends. And I wouldn't call what we have 'friendship'."

"What would you call it, then?"

Will hesitates. His jaws part and then he presses his lips together and swallows. He straightens up and leans back in his chair, idly spinning the handle of the spoon around in his bowl. "I honestly don't think there's a word for what you and I are to each other." Then, he sighs. "Jack called you."

"Of course he did."

"There's been another murder. One he didn't want me to see."

"Why do you think that is?"

"Why don't you tell me?" Will asks, challenging.

Hannibal smiles. "I think Uncle Jack sees you as a fragile little tea-cup, the finest china used for only special guests. You have cultivated a person suit for him that provokes his fatherly instincts, and at the same time nudges at his aggression."

Will cocks his head to one side. "How do you see me?"

"You are the mongoose I want under the house when the snakes slither by." Will's eyes lift and meet Hannibal's, and he presses his lips together and then bites his lower one. "There are things I want to ask you, Will. There are questions I have. You are, of course, not obligated to tell me. Nor is Peter, or any other suit you're wearing, but I would consider it a great favor to me if you did."

"Depends on the question," Will says, and takes another bite of soup.

Hannibal studies him for a moment. "Did you father a child with Margot Verger?"

Will blinks, frowning at him, his spoon halfway back to the bowl. He sets it down and heaves in a deep breath through his nose, and looks away. "She told you about Mason," he says. "She's a patient of yours?"

"I'm not allowed to say."

"That's a 'Yes', then," Will murmurs. He rubs a hand over his mouth, Jack-like. His eyes flash to Hannibal's, then away again. "In the interest of professional courtesy, I'm not allowed to say either."

Clever boy. A 'Yes' without saying it. Hannibal smiles. "I think she will be an excellent mother."

"Don't really know enough about her to say one way or the other," Will replies. "Her brother died, and now my brain has one less body taking up room." He rubs his thumb against the side of his nose and sighs. "When I do what I do, I build a fort. I put everything that someone needs into that fort, and travel between them like a visiting Lord. And now my forts are crumbling apart."

"Do you feel these suits assimilating back into you?" Hannibal asks.

Will bites his lip again. "I can still play the violin, if that's what you're asking."

Hannibal smiles. "Perhaps you and I should play together sometime, then," he says. "If you're amenable."

"If that's what you want," Will replies with an overly-casual shrug. His eyes are still out the window. Then, he swallows and shifts his weight, setting his elbow against the table, and regards Hannibal's soup bowl. "I feel like a failure."

Hannibal's eyebrows rise. "Why is that?"

Will shakes his head. He stands. "I'd like to show you something," he says, and then he walks towards the stairs leading to the upper floor. Hannibal stands and follows him, the dogs trailing along behind and overtaking them with wagging tails and soft whines. Will leads him to a closed door and shushes the dogs, nudging them back.

He meets Hannibal's eyes and then opens it, letting them both inside, and closes the door behind him.

It's a bedroom, though Hannibal isn't sure Will uses it. There is a mattress in the corner, on no frame, and the only window to the room is small and covered in a blackout curtain. There is no other furniture, and as Will closes the door, they are both thrust into semi-blackness. Hannibal slides his hands into the pockets of his coat and looks around. The walls are white, the floor covered in cream carpet that has splatters of paint on the edges.

Will turns on the light and Hannibal's attention is drawn to the wall opposite the mattress.

On it are silhouettes, stencils of men. Hannibal can see dark lines under the white paint where they've been covered up and painted anew. In the corner are buckets of white, black, and red paint, and a brush that looks recently used.

There are four stencils right now, painted on the wall. One of them has a red smear across the part where the neck would be. Another has a stark red swatch in the area of the stomach. Hannibal walks over to them, regarding them without expression.

"Pieces of me are dying," Will whispers. "You're killing me."

"Are you blaming me for what happened to Charles? And Mason?"

"There's correlation, and then there's causation, Doctor Lecter. Do not think I don't know the difference."

Hannibal turns, regarding Will over his shoulder. "I've found some correlations of my own," he says. He looks back at the wall. "For instance, Peter and I met through Ms. Du Maurier. So too, I've found, did Margot and your Mason-suit."

"I thought you weren't allowed to say she was a patient," Will says. He steps up next to Hannibal, joining him in regarding the wall.

"I didn't," Hannibal replies, smiling.

Will huffs, but is silent. He reaches out and touches one of the silhouettes. "How will this one die?" he asks. "Or this one?" he adds, gesturing to another.

Hannibal reaches out and traces the outline of a faded black mark, still visible under the fresh coat of white paint. "How long have you been doing this for, Will?"

"I'm starting to think too long."

"Are you starting to get tired?"

Will sighs. "I think, after a while, a canvass grows weary of being used. I have been a canvass for many artists, and none of them have shown as much mastery as you have." His hand falls from the wall.

Hannibal turns to look at him, and then his eyes are drawn to another door in the room. It's open, revealing an empty closet beyond. Will regards Hannibal, and then takes a step back, and Hannibal walks over to the door and gently swings it closed.

Behind the door, uncovered by layers of paint, is another stencil. But this one has been filled all in black. It's a bold, stark interruption, mighty when compared to the fragile outlines Will has painted on the other walls. It stands taller, and although there is no discernible difference in the shape, Hannibal gets the impression that Will has colored in this stencil many times, over and over until it is a great, open void.

 _Five_.

He turns around and Will meets his gaze steadily. It's not Will, though. Hannibal reads the body language of a predator, a wolf, with its sights on the object of its desire. He turns back to the silhouette, and feels the shadowy half-formed figure lurking behind him start to grow edges.

"You want to be an artist in your own right," Hannibal murmurs. He doesn't reach out to touch the silhouette, although he desperately wants to.

Five swallows loud enough for Hannibal to hear. "I can't," he replies. He sounds like he's in pain.

"What do I call you?" Hannibal asks.

"You must call me 'Will', for now. That is who I am. Until I'm not."

Hannibal smiles. "Do you know what an imago is, Will?"

Will comes into view beside him and Hannibal draws his eyes away from the silhouette. Will's eyes are on it, something akin to longing on his face.

"It's a flying insect."

Hannibal nods. "It's the final stage of a transformation. Maturity."

A flicker of a smile crosses Will's face. "When you become who you will be?"

"It's also a term from the dead religion of psychoanalysis. An imago is an image of a loved one buried in the unconscious, carried with us all our lives."

Will makes an uncomfortable sound, his shoulders rolling. "An ideal," he says, and spits the word.

"The _concept_ of an ideal, always searching for an objective reality to match. I have a concept of you, just as you have a concept of me."

Will huffs. "Neither of us ideal."

Hannibal hums. "I suppose we are both too curious about too many things for any ideals." He waits for Will to say something else, and in the silence, he continues; "Is it ideal that Will and Peter die?"

Will hesitates, and sucks in a breath through his teeth. He pulls his hands out of his robe and pulls the halves tighter around him, lowering his gaze to the ground. "If I'm to become an artist, I must stop being a canvas. It's necessary."

"That will mean terrible things for the people you serve."

"I don't know if you would miss Peter," Will says, "but I know you wouldn't miss me. I'm a thorn in your paw. A knot in your hair. I exist to destroy people like you; a feral dog at the end of Jack Crawford's leash."

"I want to set you free."

Will swallows, and when he looks back up, Hannibal can see tears in the corners of his eyes.

"Of you?" he asks.

"Of this life," Hannibal replies. Will turns to meet his eyes and Hannibal revolves into him, pulled as helplessly as a meteor crashing into the Earth. He cups Will's cheek and wipes his thumb under Will's eye, forcing a tear out and then catching it and cleansing him of it. "Come to my home tonight, and I shall cook for you. Lamb."

Will huffs, a strained, eager laugh. "Sacrificial? 'Behold the Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world'."

Hannibal smiles. "I freely claim my sin. I don't need a sacrifice. Do you?"

"Peter follows his Lord, and ate the sacrifice of his body and blood. And then he betrayed him. Peter has to die. I know this." He sucks in a breath, closes his eyes, turns his face into Hannibal's palm. "If he came to you, and asked you for forgiveness, would you give it to him?"

"Forgiveness simply happens, Will, and as far as I'm concerned there is nothing to forgive."

"If I confessed to Jack Crawford now, you think he would forgive me?"

Hannibal smiles. "No."

Will nods, and opens his eyes, and straightens up with a shaky breath. "No. You're right. Jack isn't offering forgiveness. He wants justice. He wants to see the Ripper, and 'S'. He wants to know the truth. And I want to give it to him. I want him to know what I've done. What you've done."

Hannibal nods. His hand feels warm where it touched Will's skin. His fingers curl around his thumb, soaking the dampness of Will's tears into his skin. "To the truth, then. And all its consequences." Will swallows. "Perhaps it is time you began to practice your art. Not as a canvass, but an artist in your own right."

Will shakes his head and presses his lips together. His shoulders are shaking and his fingers are white-knuckled in his robe.

"Will," Hannibal says, and Will lifts his eyes. "There's no move after a Checkmate. This game is over. It's time to start a new one."

Will's jaw clenches, his eyes flash, and he looks back at the filled-in silhouette. "I know," he replies, softly. He rubs a hand over his mouth and drags his nails down his neck, raising white lines. "I think it would be an honor to die by your hands, Hannibal."

Hannibal cocks his head to one side. "I have no intention of harming you," he says.

"I know," Will says, and turns his gaze back to the remaining two stencils on the wall. "But if Peter and Will have to die, we will have to make it look convincing."

Hannibal smiles. He steps forward and Will sucks in a breath, and Hannibal takes him by the back of the neck and kisses him. Will moans into the kiss, his hands curling in the halves of Hannibal's coat, and Hannibal pushes him against the wall, his shoulders hitting the chest of the silhouetted man that had spent so long hidden behind Will's closet door.

He pulls back and cups Will's face, resting their foreheads together. "I'm glad to finally meet you, 'S'," he says, and Will trembles. "Come with me, darling. I want to hear you howl."


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so my Word doc kept freezing every time I tried to save it which is UTTERLY terrifying, let me tell you.  
> I think you guys are gonna get super hyped after reading this~

_Get on your knees and let the games begin. Bow to your queen, and I will crown your head._  
 _'Cause I can make you every inch a king._  
 _Before I do it, tell me, tell me what's in it for me._  
 _I need someone young, willing and able. You need someone old enough to know better._  
I want you to do my dirty work _._

Dirty Work – Halestorm

~

Hannibal has spent a great deal of his life indulging in the finer things. He appreciates good food and wine, of course. He delights in the opera and the refined social construct of the upper class. He is enthralled with the fine-tuned points of the human mind, loves to map it and piece some pieces together, and tear others apart. There is nothing more exquisite than watching a perfectly presented work of art.

Not to say, of course, that the construction is not equally fine.

Will sits next to him in his car, completely still. If Hannibal didn't know any better, he would say that there is a statue in his passenger seat. Will no longer breathes and huffs and shifts his weight to remind people he's alive. He knows that he is alive. He sits with his eyes set out of the window, his palms flat on his thighs.

"You must promise me something," Will says over the hum of Hannibal's car.

"What is that?"

"You will not harm Margot. Or her baby." Will turns his head and Hannibal feels his eyes on the side of his face. "That was my gift to her. Mason's gift to her. Without it, Mason will need to return. I can't leave her alone."

Hannibal smiles. "She cares deeply for you," he replies. Will shakes his head and turns his gaze back to the window.

"Not for me," Will replies. "No one cares for me."

"I do."

"I'm getting tired of repeating myself."

"As am I," Hannibal replies smoothly. "You created Peter to sate my immediate needs, but you did it so well that I became interested in all facets of your person suits, as well as the man beneath them." Will hums. "I want to see your true self, Will. All of it."

"I offer it freely," he replies. "But I don't think that's what you want."

"Enlighten me."

"You revel in my destruction," Will says. "My decomposition. I am an anthill into which you pour water. A beehive starved of air in a plastic bag. And Scheherazade ended her song, and the pig was finally led to slaughter. How will you deal with the fool, and with the saint?" He heaves a large breath. "And then, when there is no one left, there is just the wolf. Do you want a pet, Doctor Lecter? I think not."

"If you're so worried about how I will receive you, why did you show me what you are?"

Will huffs a small laugh, and rubs his thumb against the side of his nose. "I suppose I was curious what would happen."

"We are joint in our goals now, dear Will. If that is what you'd prefer I call you."

Will is silent for a moment. Then; "Yes," he says.

"I'm curious why you chose the letter 'S'," Hannibal continues.

Will smiles. "My middle name is Shannon," he says. "Not a lot of people know that. There's a river in Ireland, that's my namesake. And then there's 'S' for Scheherazade. 'S' for Simon Peter. 'S' for the pig led to slaughter. Submission. Starvation. Seer. Sacrifice. 'S' is one of the most common letters in the English language." He sighs again. "I suppose it was the only thing I could think of to remind me of who I am."

Hannibal smiles. "Poetic," he says.

"I want to kill Freddie Lounds," Will murmurs. Hannibal raises his eyebrows. "She spoke of you like a sideshow act. Flaunted my name for the sake of her own popularity." He hisses in a breath and lets it out slowly.

"Your righteous anger for my sake is flattering," Hannibal says.

"Pride is the ultimate destroyer of man," Will replies. "Not Wrath. Not Gluttony, or Greed. Pride makes us blind, and makes us angry, and we will do whatever we can to reclaim it." He pauses. "Do you think of Zama often?"

"No."

"I do," Will says. "I imagine Hannibal the Conqueror in a fit of rage at the loss. I know what I would do for him. I know what I want to do for you. But I'm a fly on your windshield, an annoying buzz in your ear. I think you would destroy me if I gave you the chance."

"You underestimate my attachment to you."

Will hums. "Or perhaps you underestimate my love."

Hannibal smiles. "There are worse things than spending your life trying to outshine your companion in regards to love."

"My art is less refined than yours," Will murmurs.

"I think I am beginning to see why 'S' lurked in the shadows for so long," Hannibal says lightly. "Your inferiority complex is endearing, Will, but it is just a façade. I encourage you to overcome it, for the sake of our friendship."

"Would you rather I challenge you, as Tobias did?"

The words are soft and cutting, deadly as a sharp knife between the ribs. Hannibal feels his chest get tight. "Are you any good at Chess?" he asks.

"Out of practice, but yes," Will replies.

Hannibal smiles. "Why didn't you dispose of the body? It was the prudent course."

"He deserved to be seen," Will says. "I want people to know what happens when they betray me."

Hannibal thinks of Bedelia, and swallows.

"It was a fine work of artistry."

"Is that how you see your own efforts?"

"You mutilated the body. Displayed it," Hannibal says. Traffic is starting to thicken around them as they approach Baltimore, and he slows the car and slides into place behind another. The warm air has brought people out of their winter holes, eager to foray into the open air.

Will smiles and turns to regard him. "The bird is leaving the nest, Doctor Lecter. Spreading his wings."

"A newly-fledged bird is at his most vulnerable. He still relies on his parents for food. He can fly, but he has to learn to hunt."

Will sighs, settling back into his seat. "And they learn via imitation. Just as a painter learns by going out to the wilderness and putting what he sees onto his canvass. Just as a sculptor must study the work of his master. There is a mantra in medical tuition you must know: watch one, do one, teach one. I've seen plenty."

"And how did it feel? To manipulate what was a living man into a message all of your own?"

"Like…I wasn't finished until I had."

"Did you take a trophy, too, Will?" Hannibal asks. "Where is Tobais' tongue?"

"Fed to the dogs. Like Jezebel."

"His betrayal hurt you deeply."

"What do you think?" Will growls, clenching his teeth when Hannibal turns his head to regard him in a moment of standstill traffic.

Hannibal smiles. "I think taking a trophy is the act of a serial killer. But you didn't claim it. You threw it away, because it was unworthy of you."

"I would have thrown him all away," Will says quietly, "except I wanted you to see. I wanted you to know what I would do to whoever tried to harm you."

"I do not think Freddie Lounds is trying to harm me," Hannibal replies. "Rather, I think there are others our attention would be best diverted to." Will frowns, tilting his head to one side. "Since we have agreed to be honest with each other, and since I feel our paths are headed away from this city altogether, let me ask you another question."

"Ask," Will breathes.

"What loyalty do you owe to Ms. Du Maurier?"

Will swallows, working his jaw to one side, and he sits back in the passenger seat, his eyes out the front windshield. He is silent and Hannibal allows him to stew, until he sees the exit sign for Baltimore and takes it, merging onto the next road.

"…She led me to you," he finally says.

"By design?"

"I was a patient of hers," Will whispers. He sounds like he's in a trance. "And as I was with her, she saw things in me. The things that you see. The things that Jack doesn't let himself see. And I began to grow under her care. She made me feel safe, and powerful. And I wanted to be like her. So I began to mimic her, and it scared her. She was afraid of me, though she tried not to show it. I saw."

He huffs a laugh. "She introduced me to a man. His name was Abel Gideon."

A flicker of recognition stirs in Hannibal's brain. "He was convicted of killing his wife and children two years ago," Hannibal says.

Will smiles, sly and smug. "Yes," he says happily. "He was."

Hannibal raises his eyebrows. "Was that your hand?"

Will laughs again, the sound as pretty as Peter's laugh. "It was from him that I learned not to foster dependency too closely," he says. "I allowed him to love me, to become obsessed with me. I became his friend and his closest confidante. Then, I told him his wife had tried to touch me, that she'd put her hands on me and asked me to father a child with her. He killed her, because he could not kill me. Because he loved me too much."

"Did Abel Gideon regard you like a pet?"

"Yes," Will hisses, voice thick with distaste. "He did not think of me as an equal. Nor Tobias, or Margot, and neither does Jack. I will not tolerate it for a second longer."

Hannibal is silent for a moment, considering that. "So you did not kill them. Abel Gideon's wife and children."

Will shrugs. "Technically."

"And what did Ms. Du Maurier do, when he was gone?"

"She gave me another toy," Will says. "And another, and another. But I do not think she intended to give me you."

"Oh?"

"I don't tell her a lot of things," he continues. "I haven't visited her in weeks. Perhaps she's worried about me." He smiles, slowly. "I should visit her."

"Yes, maybe you should."

"You are not worried for her?"

"Should I be?" Hannibal counters.

"I would never hurt her," Will says. "I owe her my chrysalis, just as I owe you my final stage."

"She will flee, when she realizes what you've done."

Will nods, slowly. Then, he turns his gaze on Hannibal again. "You're easier to talk to, now," he says. "I should be more careful."

Hannibal smiles. "Do you think I would betray you?"

"I don't know."

They sit in silence for a moment longer. Then, Hannibal lets out a soft hum. "For you to truly become what you are, Peter and Will must die, as you say." Will nods, sitting up straighter in his seat. "How do you propose we do that?"

"Oh, simply!" Will says, smiling. "I'm going to send Jack after you, and you're going to kill me."

Hannibal pauses, and looks over at him. He cannot keep his eyes off the road for long, but he regards Will long enough to see the eager slant of his smile, the light in his eyes. "I…don't understand," he says.

"I will tell Jack that you are the Ripper," Will says. "And he will try and get me to get you to confess. When we have evidence, he will try to arrest you. I will tell him that I have convinced you of my loyalty, that you trust me, that I will lure you into his trap. And you will kill me, and flee, and I will find you."

Hannibal considers this. "It sounds like we are playing Chess with Backgammon pieces," he says. Will doesn't reply. "A double agent on top of a double cross. I will think you're my man in the room, Jack will think you are his. I don't know if I can trust you."

"I've told you everything," Will says quietly. "My fate rests in your hands."

"And you claim to love me," Hannibal replies. He has reached his home, and pulls to a stop in his parking space, turning off the engine. Will sits forward, undoing his seatbelt, and Hannibal turns to meet his gaze. "You have given me great power to harm you, Will, but in return I have sacrificed my own secrets. How can I be sure your loyalty has ever been mine?"

Will bites his lower lip, looking down at his hands. He shakes his head. "I can't," he replies. "As you said, Peter denounces Jesus after he dies. A pig can turn and gore its master before the butcher's knife comes down. Scheherazade seduced and charmed the monster in her wedding bed."

"Tobias called you a snake," Hannibal says.

"And you called me a mongoose," Will replies, smiling. "A killer of snakes."

"I think your plan is rash, and reckless," Hannibal says. Will swallows, bowing his head. "But…" He lifts his eyes and Hannibal smiles, reaching out to cup his cheek. "I see no reason why I can't indulge these fantasies of yours."

Will's eyes are bright, a lovely green to hint at coming springtime. Hannibal smiles again and leans across the middle console to kiss him chastely. "Come inside with me," he says, and Will nods eagerly. Hannibal lets him go and they leave the car and head inside.

~

"I have perfected my design from its original," Hannibal says, coming to a stop in front of Will's kneeling body. He is naked, like a monument in Hannibal's bedroom. Will looks up – and it is not Peter, but Will, the original beast under his person suit – and his eyes settle on the mask in Hannibal's hands. This one is clear, so that Hannibal can more openly admire the flush as it spreads down Will's cheeks. There are small holes at the mouth to allow for breathing and speech, and it extends higher over the nose in an imitation of a muzzle.

Will's shoulders curl, his hands trembling as he reaches out and smooths his touch over the cheek piece. "It's beautiful," he whispers, and Hannibal smiles.

He steps forward until Will's lips almost touch his clothes, and tilts his head up with two fingers curled under his jaw. Will's lips part, begging for Hannibal's touch, and Hannibal places the mask over his face. A single strap goes below his chin and up over his head, making it impossible for him to part his jaws farther than what he needs to breathe.

Will's eyelids flutter closed as Hannibal tightens it, tugs on it and his hair to make sure it's secure. He moans softly, pressing his forehead against Hannibal's stomach, and puts his hands flat over Hannibal's thighs.

Hannibal smiles, affectionate and indulgent, and tugs on Will's hair again. "Stand," he says, and Will does, pressing himself close to Hannibal's chest when Hannibal tilts his head back to admire the bruising still surrounding the bite mark on Will's throat.

He leans in and puts his lips against Will's ear; "The only regret I have is that I won't be able to kiss you with this on," he says. Will shivers, and Hannibal can see him biting his lower lip when he pulls back. "I suppose I shall simply have to savor other pieces of you today."

Will lets out a quiet, desperate noise. He flattens his hands over Hannibal's chest and curls his fingers in the armholes of his waistcoat.

Hannibal smiles and steps back, forcing Will to part from him. "Kneel for me, darling," he says. "On the bed."

Will goes, sliding into place like an otter into water. He kneels facing the head of Hannibal's bed, on his knees and his closed fists, baring his back to Hannibal's gaze. He is a beast, a predator that Hannibal has caught and tamed, and Hannibal thinks about putting him in a leash and leading him through the night while they hunt their prey together. He imagines setting Will loose on his victim, watching Will tear them apart with his teeth and claws. He imagines their next victim as Jack.

He smiles.

"I look forward to the day when the only marks on you are mine," he says, dragging his nails across one of the welts Margot left on his back. Will trembles, his shoulders rolling and his back arching into the touch.

Hannibal sheds his waistcoat, tie, and belt, setting them with his shoes and socks by the table and chairs in his bedroom. Then he goes to his dresser and takes out the claws that Peter had loved so much, and, after another moment, he takes a out three strips of cloth. Two of them are long, one of them very small, all black.

He goes to the side of the bed and lays them out in front of Will. Will's eyes flash to them, then rise to Hannibal's face. He swallows, licks his lips, and sits up, offering his wrists.

Hannibal smiles, and takes one of his wrists, raising it to his mouth to kiss. Will trembles, his breath stuttering, and then Hannibal pulls his wrist to the corner of the bed and wraps one end of one of the long pieces around the both, and then around Will's wrist, binding him there.

He circles the bed and repeats the process with the second one. When he is done, Will is spread out for him, his back exposed and his knees lifting his ass up in offering. It's a long stretch and Hannibal knows he won't be able to move. Will's fingers wrap around the cloth, not to tug, but to anchor.

He smiles, and takes the third piece. He kneels between Will's thighs and reaches between them, wrapping his fingers around Will's cock. Will's breath hitches, he's hard in Hannibal's hand, eager and needy as the rest of him. Hannibal takes the third piece and wraps it around the base of Will's cock, around his balls, and pulls it tight enough that he knows it hurts.

Will hisses, whimpering, but doesn't move away or make any sound of protest. Hannibal smiles and rewards him with a kiss to his spine, earning another shiver from his pretty wolf, trapped below him.

"Now," he says, and sees Will tilt his head, attentive and eager. "I'm going to ask you more questions, Will. Don't worry – they'll be 'Yes' or 'No', so you don't have to speak. Every time you answer me honestly, I will give you a reward. If I think you're lying to me, I will be…less kind. Nod if you understand."

Will nods, frantic. His knuckles go white around the cloth binding his hands.

Hannibal smiles and runs his hand through Will's hair in reward. Will moans, his eyes closing, and then he hangs his head, heaving a breath. Ready.

Hannibal takes his claws, curling his fingers around the handles, and settles into place behind Will.

He runs the claws gently down either side of Will's spine, smiling when Will moans and arches up into the touch. They leave little red lines behind, just enough to tease. "Did you always know who and what I was?" Hannibal asks.

Will sighs, shaking his head. Hannibal smiles and runs his claws over Will's back again, harder this time. Then he flattens his hands and smooths his fingers up, warming up the skin. Will trembles beneath him like a thoroughbred in the starting gate, ready to sprint.

He cocks his head to one side, considering his next question. "Did you let Tobias touch you like I do?" he asks.

Will shakes his head again, and Hannibal growls, reaching between his legs and tugging on the knot of cloth around his cock. Will jerks, whimpering, and shakes his head more frantically. He tugs on the ropes around his wrists, and Hannibal can hear him try to speak, but he's muzzled and silent. He keeps shaking his head.

Hannibal hums, satisfied, and kisses one of the divots in the small of Will's back. Will's body is heaving, his breath hitching. "Hush, Will," he says. "I just wanted to be sure."

Will whimpers and presses his body back into Hannibal's hands, straining as much as he can, until the bedposts creak. Hannibal shushes him again and coaxes him back into place.

"Did you like it when Margot beat you?"

Will hesitates. Then, he nods. Hannibal rakes the claws up Will's back, harsher this time, and Will moans. "Do you like it when I hurt you?" He nods again, more eagerly this time.

Hannibal growls, and pushes himself off the bed. He crosses back to the dresser and takes his bottle of lubricant and a small vibrator. Hannibal himself has never had a need for it, but he purchased it the last time Peter was here and Hannibal made him cry. He thinks, beyond pain, turning Will into a sobbing mess from pleasure and overstimulation would be just as satisfying.

Will is starved for touch, for any kind hand. Hannibal will feed him until he splits at the seams.

He returns to his place between Will's thighs and uncaps the bottle. Will's shoulders flex and he lowers his chest to the duvet, offering himself up as much as he can. Hannibal smiles and pours some of the lubricant onto the vibrator, and smears the rest across Will's hole. He doesn't use his fingers to stretch him open.

"Did it feel good, being inside her?" Hannibal asks.

Will trembles, and nods, once. Hannibal smiles and angles the toy against Will's hole, and forces it inside. He does not allow Will to fight him, to flinch from him, and Will moans in pain at the sudden stretch, his spine arching and his cock twitching where it's exposed between his thighs.

"Did you ever want to hurt her back?" Hannibal asks. Will shakes his head, his breathing unsteady, and Hannibal laughs. "Are you sure? She beat you, dehumanized you, and only stopped when you cried."

Will swallows, and shakes his head again.

"Do you want to hurt me?"

Another headshake. Will moans in supplication. He's starting to sweat, Hannibal can see the shine of it on his back.

He smiles, and pushes the button at the base of the vibrator to turn it on. Will tenses up, moaning loudly, his hips curling as the sensation of the toy ricochets up his spine like a bullet. He shakes with it, his cock twitching and starting to leak onto the duvet.

Hannibal grabs the claws again.

"You want to protect me, to follow me. You want to love me." They aren't questions, but Will nods to every single one, and Hannibal slides his claws up Will's flanks, digging hard enough to make the skin bristle and rise in the tease of a scratch. His hips press against Will's ass and it forces the vibrator in more harshly, and Will moans, gasping, unable to catch his breath.

Hannibal digs his claws into Will's throat, forcing his head up, and Will submits to it with a low growl. Hannibal knows it hurts – the claws are digging in deep and the bite mark on Will's throat is still sore, but Will doesn't flinch from him. Hannibal nuzzles Will's hair under the strap of the mask and Will whines for him.

"Do you want to prove your loyalty to me?" he growls into Will's ear, and Will whimpers and nods. Hannibal rewards him by pulling back and pushing the button on the vibrator again. The sound of it harmonizes gorgeously with Will's moan. Will opens his eyes and turns his head and Hannibal licks his cheek where the tears have gathered at the mask.

Will's body shudders, arching up against Hannibal as best he can. Hannibal is sure Will can feel his erection, demanding and hard against his ass, and whenever Hannibal's claws drag across Will's skin it earns him another weak, desperate noise.

He wraps his hands around Will's stomach and digs his claws in _deep_ , harsh enough that it pinpricks the skin, and Will moans for him, loudly, his body jerking with pleasure.

"If I asked you to kill Jack Crawford, would you do it?"

Will's eyes flash open, he tries to turn and meet Hannibal's gaze but he can't from the way he's positioned. Then, he parts his lips, and hisses; "Yes."

Hannibal smiles, and leans down to kiss his shoulder. "And if I asked you to kill Bedelia Du Maurier?"

Will whimpers, his fingers clenching. "No," he replies, and shakes his head since he can't quite form the word.

Hannibal hums. "Then I think you know what you need to do to prove yourself to me, my love," he says. Will whines again, closing his eyes, and turns his head down. Hannibal turns the vibrator off and pulls it out, then unbuttons and unzips his suit pants and pushes them down along with his underwear.

He doesn't stretch Will out more. He is not gentle. The only kindness he grants is unwinding the string of cloth from around his cock so that Will can enjoy this as much as he will.

Will shakes, his breath hitching when Hannibal flattens his hands on Will's flesh and forces him to part for his cock. Hannibal growls, baring his teeth in a snarl, and prowls over Will, flattens him to the bed and pins him down so that he can't move as Hannibal starts to thrust.

Will moans, arching up into the pressure of Hannibal against his back. His shoulders tense and tighten, his thighs shaking as he braces himself as best he can and allows Hannibal to use him. Hannibal growls, knots a hand in Will's hair and yanks his head to one side so that the side of his neck is exposed. The bitten side.

Hannibal licks over the edge of the bruise from his previous bite, bares his teeth, and sinks them into Will's neck. He claims Will in the same way he claimed Peter, blood and bone and flesh. Will jerks underneath him, crying out in something like ecstasy, his blood sweet with joy as he yields to Hannibal's control and dominion.

Hannibal curls his fingers in Will's sweaty hair, braces himself on Will's hip, and thrusts into him as hard as he can. He will turn Will into dust, destroy him from the inside out, catapult and crumble his forts until there is nothing left but the predator chained up in the dungeon of his mind. He will liberate Will, free him from everything else so that he can be Hannibal's wholly. In his freedom, he will give himself to Hannibal, and allow himself to be enslaved.

Hannibal growls, slowing when he feels Will's body tightening around him, and he reaches underneath Will to stroke his cock, tugging at the sensitive skin where the cloth chafed him, and Will flinches up against his chest when he does it, but his body is careening down the precipice of orgasm and he has no choice but to let gravity take him. Will spills over Hannibal's hand and onto the duvet with a high-pitched, shattered cry, and he tugs on the cloth around his wrists hard enough that Hannibal can see tender, sore lines there.

He rears back, Will's blood caking his teeth, and pulls Will's hips up so that he can thrust more deeply into him. Will jerks at every collision, too sensitive to bear it, his back red from Hannibal's claws and his nape flushed with arousal. Hannibal can smell his tears, and his release, and he thinks about using them as seasonings for Jack's neck.

He slams deep into Will one last time with that thought in his head, and lets his orgasm overtake him. He clenches his jaw, and pulls out, stroking his cock so that his release spills thickly over Will's back, across his hole, drips down his thighs and onto the sheets. Will shivers, moaning softly in something that sounds like gratitude, and Hannibal heaves a breath, trying to calm his racing heart.

After a moment he tucks himself back into his clothes, fixes them, and climbs off the bed to untie Will. He leaves the mask until last, and is a little disappointed that there are no indents in his cheeks. It fit him too well.

Will is breathing hard, working his jaw like a dog freed from its muzzle for the first time. He stays on all fours on Hannibal's bed, heaving, overstimulated and too weak to move.

Hannibal sets the mask to one side, along with the claws, the vibrator, and the strips of cloth. Then, he sits on the edge of his bed and takes Will's face in his hands. Will collapses against him, sliding into place at his side, and his eyes are bright and glazed when they meet Hannibal's.

Hannibal smiles, and kisses him, deeply enough that Will gasps and when they part, a soft whine escapes.

He licks his lips, lowers his eyes to Hannibal's mouth, then back up. "I understand," he whispers, gently touching Hannibal's chest. "I'll prove myself to you. I swear."

Hannibal smiles, and rewards him with another kiss. "I never doubted you for a second," he replies, and then stands. "Get dressed and come downstairs when you are ready. I promised you a meal, and you will need your strength for what's coming."


	11. Chapter 11

_I thought that we would build this together, but everything I touch just seems to break._   
_Am I your sail or your anchor? Am I the calm or the hurricane?_   
_I feel the ground start to shake, I hear a voice shouting "No", but there is no fucking way I'd leave you._   
_So I'll just hold you like a hand grenade, you touch me like a razor blade._   
_I wish there was some other way right now._   
_Like a house on fire we're up in flames, I'd burn here if that's what it takes_   
_To let you know I won't let go of you._

House on Fire – Rise Against

~

Hannibal can count the number of times he has been struck speechless on one hand in his entire life prior to meeting Peter, and then Will. In the short time since, he finds that the number has almost tripled.

This is another such time.

He stands beside Jack, gazing impassively as Will circles the two bodies on the floor. It is two women, laid down so that their hips are level with each other, but facing in opposite directions. On one of them rests a stuffed lion's head, and in the other's grip are two golden cups, standing upright. They are both swathed in white robes, angelic-looking almost. To the free side of the one holding the cups, a wing is extended, made out of what Hannibal assumes are wigs. Red curls spread out in the shape of a bird with its wing stretched out fully, gliding through the currents.

Both of their faces have been removed. The one with the lion's head has been replaced with a smiling white theatre mask. The other one is the mask of sorrow, open-mouthed and screaming.

But Hannibal would recognize those blonde waves anywhere, the artful ringlets splayed out around her head like a halo. So, too, does he know the tight orange curls of the sad woman with the wing and chalices. There are no other wounds on them and Hannibal isn't sure what it means.

"We got a positive I.D.," Jack says, low so as to not disturb Will. "It's Freddie Lounds, and a Bedelia Du Maurier. A colleague of yours, I believe?"

"Yes," Hannibal says, his voice uncharacteristically hoarse. He swallows and curls his fingers in the pockets of his coat. "I knew her well. She was a dear friend of mine."

Will kneels down, gently touching the lion head with a gloved hand. His fingers are shaking and there are tears in his eyes. "I kill Ms. Du Maurier with my bare hands," he says, looking at her mask where it sits on her face. He bites his lower lip. "I knew her, and I loved her. I remove her face and give her the gift of an immortal smile. I lay her down gently, and grant her my strength." His fingers curl around Bedelia's hand where it rests on the lion's forehead.

He stands, and circles to Freddie Lounds' body. Hannibal looks on, enthralled, eager to hear what his beloved 'S' meant when he took her life as well. Will's face contorts into something angry and mean, and he bares his teeth at her.

"I hated Freddie Lounds," he says. "She ruined my name, used my love for her own personal gain. But I admired her, too. She was caught in the wind, fighting against an updraft, and she fought well. But not as well as I did. I give her the gift of ascension. I want her to look down on me and know that I won." He sucks in a breath, closing his eyes, and wipes his hand over his face to get rid of the tears. "I reward her for her tenacity, and her daring. Her cup will runneth over in the Kingdom of Heaven." He sighs and opens his eyes again. "This is my design."

"Jack." Hannibal stands to one side to make way for Beverly. She looks at the bodies with something akin to sadness, but the absent kind where she knows the deceased, but feels no loss. It's sympathy, and nothing more. "These are Tarot cards."

"What?" Jack asks, frowning.

Beverly nods to the bodies, pressing her lips together. "My mother used to read them," she says. "This is Strength, and Temperance."

"What does it mean?" Jack growls.

"Strength represents standing your ground, staying committed to a cause. It can represent support if it's for another person, but it can also mean, if it refers to the person reading it, that they are about to undergo a change that will leave them strong and self-assured."

Hannibal hums, his eyes on Will as Will approaches them. He's breathing heavily, his eyes bright with what remains of his unshed tears.

Beverly gives him a look of sympathy, sharper now that she sees Will's distress. "And Temperance allows you to cope with winds of change," she says. "It is a source of willpower in the struggles you are about to face. If this card represents another person in your life, you are looking toward a role model who can teach you how to best cope with the transformation you are currently undergoing. If this card represents you, you will benefit greatly from the coming changes."

Hannibal watches Jack absorb that information, and then his eyes move to Will. Will's expression hasn't changed, but Hannibal can see a light in his eyes that has nothing to do with sadness. It's eager, like a dog when it sees its master's car pull into the driveway.

Hannibal resists the urge to reach out and touch Will.

"Son of a bitch," Jack says. He looks back at the bodies.

"'S' has found the Ripper, Jack," Will murmurs towards the floor. "He's found him, and he's trying to prove himself."

"I thought you said he wouldn't do that," Jack says darkly.

Will lifts his shoulder in a shrug. "I guess we all do things in the name of what we love."

Jack lets out a low, angry growl, turning away from both of them and walking over to the coroner. Beverly follows, after she gently puts a hand on Will's arm, squeezing once. Will offers her a weak smile that she returns, and then she follows Jack away.

"A role model for your transformation," Hannibal says after a short silence. Will lifts his eyes, eager and hopeful. Hannibal smiles at him. "A fitting metaphor."

"It hurts," Will whispers, rubbing at his jaw like his teeth aren't sitting quite right together. "I wasn't ready for how much it hurts."

"It was necessary," Hannibal replies lowly. He puts a hand on Will's shoulder and Will's eyelids flutter shut. He heaves in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "Perhaps we should leave here, and go to my home. You look like you need to rest."

Will nods, opening his eyes again and looking up at Hannibal, with the same adoration with which he looked upon Hannibal's first love letter, in the form of the woman with the missing heart. He smiles, and Hannibal smiles back.

"Come with me."

~

Hannibal leads Will into his dining room and guides him to a seat at his left side. He goes into the kitchen and takes out leftover sausage made from the intestines of Tabitha, and warms them up. He compliments it with a side of rice, seasoned with grape leaves and cinnamon, and brings two plates for himself and Will.

He goes back and gets a bottle of red wine and two glasses, and returns to the dining room. Will hasn't moved – his eyes are on the plate in front of him, the gently steaming meat.

He licks his lips. "I think one day I should provide the meat," he says.

Hannibal smiles. "Do you think of yourself as a butcher?"

"No," Will replies. "Do you?"

Hannibal pours them each a glass and takes his seat. "Nothing so crass as that," he replies coolly. Will smiles and raises his glass, taking a sip. His fingers are shaking and curl loosely around the stem, still sore from Tobias' violin.

Then, Will starts to eat. He eats readily, only hesitating on the first bite of meat Hannibal has provided him. He swallows it and Hannibal feels a tremendous amount of pleasure watching him do it. It's so much more satisfying when he's feeding Will and Will knows exactly what – or who – he's eating.

Hannibal sets his glass down and sits back, regarding Will. Will's eyes rise to meet his, fleeting, and then return to his plate. He sets his utensils down.

"I've given thought to your proposal," Hannibal says.

Will nods, once, his jaw flexing as he clenches his teeth.

"I'll admit that your dedication to me is flattering," Hannibal continues. "I was under the impression that your long-standing loyalty to Ms. Du Maurier would outweigh your affection for me. I'm glad I was wrong."

Will swallows, his fingers curling on the tablecloth tight enough that his knuckles go white. "If I tell Jack what you are, he will come for you," he says, lifting his head again. "I want him to know. I want him to see you as I see you."

Hannibal hums. "It will hurt," he says.

"Yes."

"Why not just appeal to my better nature?"

Will's lips twitch in a smile and he regards Hannibal with a mix of affection and humor. "I wasn't aware you had one."

Hannibal smiles, and stands, circling the table so that he is next to Will. He kneels down and cups Will's face in his hands. "No one can be fully aware of another human being unless we love them," he says. His fingers curl in Will's hair and Will's lips part, his eyes shining. "By that love, we see potential in our beloved. And through that love, we allow our beloved to see their potential." He pauses, searching Will's face. Will looks at him like he's travelled a thousand years to gaze upon a shrine. "In expressing that love, our beloved's potential comes true."

Will sighs, and bites his lower lip. His fingers curl around one of Hannibal's wrists and he tilts his head, kissing the exposed, tender skin there.

Hannibal smiles and forces Will's gaze back to him. "I love you, Will," he says, and the sound Will lets out if one of pure, shaken joy. He turns in his seat and stands and Hannibal follows him, allowing Will to press close to his chest, and he presses a kiss to Will's gasping mouth.

"I love you," Will breathes, his fingers releasing Hannibal's wrist and tightening in his clothes instead, like he can't bear to be apart for a second longer. "Let me lead Jack to you. The final lamb for the slaughter. Then we'll leave."

"We could leave right now," Hannibal replies. "Tonight."

"No," Will says harshly, baring his teeth. He shakes his head and ducks it, his forehead against Hannibal's jaw. "No. Jack deserves to see what I see."

Hannibal hums, and cradles Will's skull in a gentle hand. He supposes, if this is what it will take to allow Will to break down all his forts and be free, he can allow that small concession.

He tugs on Will's hair and kisses him deeply. Will gasps and arches into him, as sweet and eager as Peter, as fierce as Will, as desperate as 'S'. The food is forgotten, and Hannibal takes his lovely wolf up to his bedroom to listen to him howling.

~

The phone rings. Hannibal stirs from his place in his bed, Will asleep and soft by his side. He rises from his bed and goes downstairs, taking the phone and answering the call. He doesn't know the number. "Yes?"

"Hannibal."

Hannibal freezes. It's Bedelia's voice. He lifts his eyes to the ceiling and walks into the kitchen. "Ms. Du Maurier," he says smoothly. "I'm surprised to hear your voice."

"I couldn't let him harm you."

Hannibal raises his eyebrows, and leans against the kitchen counter, his eyes on the door so he can see if Will is prowling about outside. His wolf is sneaky, and daring. And, Hannibal is now learning, a liar.

 _Traitor_.

"I saw your body," he says.

"Did you see my face?" Bedelia asks. He can hear her smiling.

"Were you complicit in this?" he asks, unsure which answer he would accept as the truth.

"Yes," Bedelia replies. Hannibal can hear the bustle of noise around her, a bell clang, _'Final boarding call for flight US nineteen to Paris'_. An airport. He smiles; she is wise, and knows better than to linger when Hannibal finds out the truth. "I wanted you to destroy each other."

"You almost got your wish," Hannibal murmurs.

"I won't ask for forgiveness," Bedelia replies airily, archly. "You either will, or you won't. But I ask that, in return for the truth, and for your freedom, you do not come looking for me. I want your word that I will not be hunted."

"I can speak for myself only," Hannibal replies. "There's a wolf in my home, now, and he has your scent."

"Then you know what must be done."

Hannibal sighs, hanging up the phone. Yes, he supposes he does.

~

"Jack told me you've invited him to dinner."

Hannibal smiles, and nods. In the fireplace, the notes on his patients curl and burn. Will has his eyes on them, unblinking.

"You sit in that chair, as you have so many times before. It holds among its molecules the vibrations of all our conversations ever held in its presence. My desk and ladder hold your touch, the air hears your cries."

"All the exchanges, the petty irritations, deadly revelations." Will smiles. "The flat announcements of disaster."

Hannibal tilts his head to one side. "The grunts and poetry of life. It's all still there. Everything we've said. Listen." He pauses, and Will closes his eyes, tilts his head to one side. "What do you hear?"

Will smiles again, soft and lovely. "A melody."

"We are orchestrations of carbon. You, and me, and that chair."

Will's fingers flex. "And Jack."

"And Jack." He regards Will for a long moment, and wonders at what point he might have ever found out the truth. Probably when it was too late. Such is Will's almost-flawless design. "All our destinies flying and swimming in blood and emptiness."

Will spreads his hands out and opens his eyes, as Peter did the first time they met. "Everybody's settling in for dinner."

"Little did Agent Crawford know what waited for him when he stepped into my office that very first time. How seldom we recognize the sound when the bolt of fate slides home."

Will swallows. A flicker of prey instinct sits behind his eyes, pushed back. Hannibal is reminded of Bedelia when she spoke about 'S'. "Jack won't be easy to kill. He'll be armed. He's strong, well trained. We can't hesitate."

Hannibal tilts his head to one side. "Hesitation is a consequence of indecision or uncertainty. I'm not suffering from either." Will nods, pressing his lips together. "Are you?"

Will shakes his head.

Hannibal smiles, and sits forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees. Will doesn't mimic him, like he's afraid of putting his throat too close to Hannibal's teeth. "When the fox hears the rabbit scream, he comes a-runnin', but not to help," Hannibal says. He nods again. "When you hear Jack scream, why will you come running?"

Will sucks in a breath. "To feast," he says, fingers curling.

"And when the time comes, will you do what needs to be done?"

Will's lips twitch, and something feral passes over his face. Eager. "Oh, yes."

Hannibal doesn't doubt him.

~

Jack is bleeding out in the pantry. Hannibal stumbles through his kitchen, blood in his mouth and running down his chest from a stab wound in his shoulder. He hears the front door opening and Will's voice calling for him, frantically.

"Hannibal? Hannibal!"

Hannibal turns, straightening up when Will comes into view in the door to the kitchen. He's wide-eyed, and frozen with fear. His fingers curl weakly in the doorframe and it looks like he wants to fall to his knees.

"…Where's Jack?" he whispers.

Hannibal nods to the door. "In the pantry."

Will's breath leaves him in a heavy, loud whimper. "You were supposed to leave," he says.

Hannibal licks his lips, tasting blood on them. "I couldn't leave without you."

He opens his arms for Will and Will staggers to him, falling against him. His fingers curl in Hannibal's bloody shirt and Hannibal takes him by the hair and kisses him. Will whines against his mouth, shaking.

Then, Hannibal wraps his other hand around the meat hook, and slices it through Will's belly. It won't kill him, if help comes fast enough. If Will is strong enough. Will gasps, shocked and trembling, his eyes wide as he falls to his knees. His blood is burning hot on Hannibal's gut and hands, and Hannibal lets go of his hair and throws him back, his shoulders colliding with the cabinets.

Hannibal snarls at him. He wants to rip the meat hook through Will's face, tear away his skin and his façade and bathe in his blood. " _Traitor_ ," he spits, baring his teeth, and he throws the meat hook away lest he succumb to the rage in his blood. He imagines digging the hook into Will's neck and slicing him open there, too, but he knows he cannot bring himself to do it. He can't take Will's life, but he can let him die.

"Hannibal," Will says weakly, clutching at his stomach. His face is wet with sweat and tears and he still looks at Hannibal with such open adoration, Hannibal wonders if this is how Christ looked towards the Heavens in his final hours.

_My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?_

Hannibal falls to his knees, cups Will's face, and brushes his sweaty hair back to reveal his eyes. He's trembling, trying desperately to stay conscious. "You wanted to surprise me," he says gently. He has never felt loss like this, not since he was a young man and failed to protect his sister.

Will gasps when Hannibal's hand tightens, and he puts his other one on Will's throat. "I let you in!" Hannibal says, and he wants to yell it, roar it so that all of Baltimore feels his rage, but his chest is too tight. "I let you know me. I let you _see_ me."

"Y-you wanted to be seen," Will stutters, gritting his teeth. His hisses in pain and clutches at his guts, curling his knees up. Like he intends to fight Hannibal back.

"Yes," Hannibal says, stroking Will's tender neck. "By you." Will whimpers, sucking in another shaky breath. "I gave you a rare gift. But you didn't want it."

Will's lips twitch weakly. "Didn't I?"

Hannibal growls, tightens his hold. "You would deny me my life."

"Not your life," Will replies. "I would see you immortalized."

"As an ornament. You would deny me my freedom, then. You'd take that from me. Confine me to a basement cell." Will flinches when Hannibal digs his nails into the bite mark on his neck. Hannibal feels a thickness in his throat, tears in his eyes. "I wanted to set you free, Will. Do you believe you could change me the way I've changed you?"

Will smiles, wider this time, no less sweet for the pain he's in and the darkness threatening to drag him under.

He reaches forward, his fingers shaking and shining with blood, and touches Hannibal's cheek. "I already have," he says. "This is my gift to you. _You_ are my design."

Hannibal swallows harshly, tightening his grip on Will's neck. Tighter, tighter, until he feels his vocal cords seize and his breath hitches. He could take Will's life now, suckle on his blood and steal his last breath.

"Are you going to beg me to stop?" he whispers, as Will's eyes become dark, browning at the edges, and flutter with lack of air. "Are you going to say 'If you loved me, you'd stop'?"

Will huffs a laugh, baring his teeth. "Not in a thousand years."

Hannibal releases his throat and Will sucks in a breath, groaning in pain, his eyes crinkling in the corners with agony. He cups Will's face again and brings their foreheads together.

He sighs. "I forgive you, Will," he says, and Will whimpers against his mouth when Hannibal kisses him. Then, Hannibal stands, and grabs the meat hook from the floor.

"No," Will says weakly, raising one blood-slick hand. "Don't…"

"Hush, beloved," Hannibal whispers, kneeling down in front of him. He pulls Will's hands from his stomach and pushes at his wound, coaxing more blood out between their fingers. Will trembles, his jaws parted in a soundless cry. Hannibal can feel him starting to go limp, unable to stay awake a moment longer. "You can make it all go away. Put your head back. Close your eyes."

Will wants to fight him, but he can't. His eyes close and he leans his head back against the kitchen cabinets, exposing his throat. Hannibal leans in and kisses the bite mark on his neck and Will flinches from it, whining softly.

Hannibal closes his eyes, and digs the meat hook into Will's chest. He has one final mark to make. "Wade into the quiet of the stream."

"Hannibal," Will breathes, aching and raw, and Hannibal smiles as he carves an 'S' into Will's chest. It barely bleeds.

~

He flees to the airport, and boards his flight. Bedelia regards him with a pensive, tight smile, and Hannibal smiles back.

"Jus d'orange. L'eau. Champagne?"

Hannibal looks up and smiles at the stewardess. "Merci," he says.

"Merci non," Bedelia says, holding up a hand. Hannibal takes a sip of the champagne, and sighs. "You promised not to come after me."

Hannibal smiles into his glass. "I did, my dear," he replies. "But when the wolf comes for you, you are going to need all the help you can get."

Bedelia raises her eyebrows, and swallows tightly. "You didn't…kill him?" she asks softly.

"Oh, I did," Hannibal replies. "A part of him, at least. Because he asked me to." He swallows and looks down at the champagne in his glass, swirling it with a contemplative gaze. "What rises from the ashes….  That remains to be seen."

"Oh, Hannibal," Bedelia murmurs, her voice thick, eyes shining. "What have you done?"

Hannibal smiles. "I believe I've created a monster," he replies, and looks over to meet her wide-eyed gaze. "And given him something to hunt."


	12. Chapter 12

_I held up a liquor store demanding top shelf metaphors, sinner's smile and open arms._   
_Drop a line to charm the silent alarm, neutral angels calling the cops - they'll be choosing sides when the fighting stops._   
_Polizie in the cabaret while we six kings made our getaway._   
_Thick as thieves, on our knees, with an ocean in between._   
_Laughter in the darkness, whispers in the shadows. I was there when the wall fell down. I'll be there when the ocean rises._   
_Building castles of cans and bottles, drinking like they do in novels._   
_Know they'll catch me by and by, but tonight you are my alibi._

Thick as Thieves – The Menzingers

~

Days pass.

Then weeks.

As they trickle into months, Hannibal begins to worry. But he will not call it worry. The sting of Will's betrayal aches something tender in his chest, like a fresh wound to his heart that he is able to forget about it until it's poked.

Bedelia enjoys poking him. Like she knows whenever Hannibal's thoughts have travelled too far into the dark, raw past. He wonders if she hopes he will sink into such a deep obsession that he will leave her and end his beloved wolf once and for all. That would be the neatest ending for her, in his opinion.

He finds himself swinging wildly between fits of rage and deep, inconsolable sadness. He kills a man and wife and steals their names for Bedelia and himself. He kills another man and takes his job. Hannibal rekindles his love with the city of Florence and recreates a perfect mirror image of the high society he so enjoyed prowling within, back in Baltimore.

But a mirror, a reflection, does not actually make the room larger. So too, can it not truly reflect Hannibal's desired reality. There's a shadow at his side, a void begging to be filled with eyes the color of steel inside of ice and a smile that would put the Mona Lisa to shame. His bed seems vast without his beloved beside him, although the nights they shared together were few.

Bedelia navigates him like they are two animals finding themselves within the same territory. Hannibal remembers comparing their interactions to a mongoose and a cobra, so long ago, but that was before he realized what another true monster looks like. She cannot possibly compare to Will – she sees Hannibal's darkness, but is repulsed by it. She is afraid, and Hannibal knows that every day she wakes and contemplates fleeing for her life.

But there's another wolf hunting her down, and regardless of her fear, she is safer with Hannibal than without him. Hannibal holds the leash, and he presents for her an opportunity to know where the wolf will be, so that when he does come, she is not unprepared.

Hannibal reads _TattleCrime_ every single day and finds nothing. Not 'nothing', as in no news on the Ripper, 'S', or Jack Crawford, either confirming or denying if any of them are still alive. Instead, there is simply _nothing_. No updates, no sensational articles from Freddie Lounds, and no new stories since Will presented him with the fake Bedelia and Freddie as a final offering to lure Hannibal into his trap.

Interesting.

Bedelia buys two bottles of wine every day, drinks herself into a stupor that calms her nerves and quiets her tongue, and Hannibal makes friends. He gathers new playthings to his lair to toy with and bat around between his claws while she sits, and watches. Hannibal wonders what she is waiting for.

~

A year passes, and it's Ash Wednesday, and Hannibal returns home and pauses. A scent he has not caught for a very long time lingers when he opens the door and the air from the inside rushes out, like fire waiting for new oxygen. It touches his face like the caress of a lover and guides him inside.

He looks around for evidence of Bedelia. All he finds is a small suitcase with his own jacket folded over the handle. His lips twitch and he closes the door behind him. There is little light in the apartment, the glow from the lamps outside making everything appear golden and fine.

He goes to the bedroom and stops. On the doors has been painted a large silhouette, shaded in with black. It's fresh, shining slickly in the light, and drips down onto the floor and towards Hannibal like it is just as eager to rush to him as the man who painted it.

He smiles, and opens the door to his bedroom. The doors to the master bathroom are open and he looks to one side and sees Bedelia.

She is silent and still, her eyes wide and staring in both accusation and a plea for mercy. Hannibal is the one that tied her to the train tracks, but he is also the only one that can cut her loose. And the train is coming.

Hannibal senses movement behind him, and remains still as Will's hands gently slide along his sides. He turns his head to one side, catching the scent of Will's aftershave, and Will rests his cheek on Hannibal's shoulder and sighs. They stare at Bedelia for a long while – her hands are tied with strips of black cloth, tight enough to turn her wrists red, and they loop under the bath so that she can't pull herself free. She's not dead – Hannibal can see the rise and fall of her chest. She's buried under ice.

Will turns Hannibal and takes his hands. He looks as beautiful as ever, his Peter-like smile splitting his face wide, the calluses on his hands rough against Hannibal's fingers and palms. He's clean-shaven, the bite Hannibal gave him has turned into a dark scar on his throat with the shape of his teeth around the edges. His hair is shorter, just starting to curl around his ears and the back of his neck. There are more lines on his neck now, smaller scars littered like crosshairs.

His eyes are a dark, pretty green, and when he smiles, they shine. "I made dinner," he says.

Hannibal raises his eyebrows and follows Will into the dining room. As he gets closer to the kitchen, he smells cooking meat, rich gravy, delicate and fine pastry. There's a place for him at the head of the table that Will gestures to, and then he lifts the lid off of Hannibal's plate.

"Steak and kidney pie?" Hannibal asks, sitting and smiling up at Will.

Will returns the expression, soft and affectionate, and pours Hannibal a glass of wine before he takes his own seat. There's nothing in front of him. "Hand-picked," he replies. "I offer you the meat of a traitor."

Hannibal hums, and takes the first bite. The kidney is thick, the meat tender, and all in all it's a very capable attempt at a meal. Will has been learning. He swallows it and washes it down with wine. "Are pieces of you missing, Will?" he asks. Will, after all, is the only traitor he knows.

Will smiles, sliding his thumb across the edge of his lower lip. He sits lax in the second chair, regarding Hannibal with heavy-lidded pleasure. "I don't think I've ever felt this whole," he says. His eyes lift to over Hannibal's shoulder, towards the bedroom and then the bathroom.

Hannibal pauses and looks down at the food. Bedelia is sitting in ice. He smiles and continues to eat.

"She was going to leave you," Will says after a moment. "Or force you to leave. I couldn't allow that to happen."

"The two of you trade off the responsibility of entertaining me like divorced parents share a child," Hannibal notes.

Will's eyes flash, a spark of anger passing in front of his face. "One of those parents always loves their child more," he replies. "She betrayed me. I showed you what I do to people who betray me."

"And I showed you the same."

Will nods, pressing his lips together. His fingers twitch and curl against his own jaw, propping his head up. "It was necessary," he says. "I had to make it look convincing."

Hannibal pauses again, eyebrows raised. "Make _what_ look convincing?"

"All of it," Will replies, and his smile is wide. His free hand moves through the air like he's playing notes on a piano. "The whole bloody orchestra. Peter and Will had to die. To do that, Jack had to be gone, and you had to kill Peter."

Hannibal tilts his head to one side. "How are you here, Will?" he asks. The evidence against him, after all, had been damning by the end.

Will smiles again and lowers both hands, sliding them along his thighs. Hannibal continues to eat. "You know, it's so… _interesting_ ," he says, "how Freddie Lounds insinuated herself so effortlessly into our investigation. How she always got the letters first and could never give away her sources. How she seemed to know so _well_ who and what 'S' might be."

Hannibal pauses, and regards Will.

"If you are suggesting Freddie Lounds is 'S'," he begins, and Will's eyes flash. "It betrays a lack of foresight on your part. Rashness. Freddie Lounds could not possibly have killed Tobias, Franklyn, or Douglas. Nor the four men and her surrogate, nor her and Bedelia's imitations. She doesn't have the strength for so much…physicality."

Will hums, and lifts one hand to brace his elbow against the edge of the table, his fingers settling lightly over the scar of Hannibal's bite. "I know that. But it's much easier to move dead weight than struggling flesh." He pauses, and a ghost of a smile crosses his face. "Poison has always been considered a woman's weapon."

Hannibal pauses and looks down at his plate, and Will laughs. "Do you think I want to kill you, Doctor Lecter?" he asks.

"I tried to kill you," Hannibal replies lightly, but takes another bite. He knows Will would not do the food such a discourtesy. "Seems only fair."

"Yes," Will replies. "But I would do it with my hands."

Hannibal smiles.

"Tell me, then, how Freddie Lounds managed to kill all these people. And why."

"Oh, the 'why' is easy," Will says with a dismissive wave of his hand. "For the sake of the story. No one loves anything more than a feisty little huntress trying to track down an unnamable evil. And can you imagine the sensationalism when it turns out she has become a target of the monster she's trying to hunt?" He laughs.

Hannibal nods, conceding that. "Then how?" he asks again.

"Easily," Will replies. "She had help."

"From?"

"Ms. Bedelia Du Maurier," Will says. "Ms. Du Maurier and Freddie Lounds knew the Ripper, and created 'S' to seduce and ensnare him. Ms. Du Maurier supplied the poisons – and you'll never guess what they found in Freddie's apartment, too – and helped her with the bodies. Then, they faked their own deaths and fled the country. Or…they tried."

Hannibal regards Will again and finds his smile, dark and promising and eager. "Freddie was caught trying to flee into Canada," he says. "She waited too long, not like her companion. It's a pity, really. She's half-mad now, raving and ranting like a wild animal in a cage."

"How did you make all this happen?" Hannibal murmurs.

Will presses his lips together, the first hints of sorrow crossing his face. He looks down. "After…that night…" He breathes the word and Hannibal feels that tender, forgotten place in his chest throb. "I was…so lost. I had created my last great symphony but now the pit was empty and I found myself unable to read the music anymore. So, I went to the only place I had left, and visited Margot Verger."

Hannibal swallows, setting his knife and fork down lest his white knuckles give him away on the cutlery. He takes a sip of whine.

"I waited until her son came into the world, healthy and screaming. Then I told her she had no need for me anymore, and she understood. I had gone to make sure I didn't owe her another son, should anything have gone wrong with this child, or it had turned out female." Will huffs a small laugh. "There's nothing of me in that child. He got his mother's eyes, her mouth, her hair."

"There is nothing for him to inherit because there was nothing of you to give," Hannibal replies. "You were a stencil, nothing more."

Will nods, pressing his lips together. Then, he takes in a breath. "Margot has money and means. She helped me to find you, and she helped me frame Freddie Lounds and lock her away for the rest of her life."

"A favor for a favor," Hannibal says, and Will huffs quietly and manages a tight smile.

He lifts his eyes. "There is nothing left of me," he murmurs, "except what remains. I have no more suits, no more costumes. I come to you as I am."

Hannibal cocks his head to one side, and then he smiles. "I was wrong about you," he says, and Will frowns and tilts his head to one side. "You're not a mongoose. Or a wolf. You are feline, killing for sport and for food in equal measure."

"The only difference between a cat and a dog is that a dog doesn't hide its desire to want to be around you," Will says, quiet and sharp. His anger makes his eyes flash. "You sit there and pretend you feel nothing when you see me, but if I were to reach out and touch you right now, you would show your belly and purr."

"And you insist you come to me openly, with no ulterior motive," Hannibal replies coolly. "How can I trust anything you say?"

Will's eyes slide away. He blinks and his shoulders sag in resignation. "Ask anything of me," he says.

"What if I asked you to go in there and let Bedelia free? To warm her and dress her and have her sit at the table with us?"

"I would," Will replies. "Happily."

Hannibal smiles. "And if I asked you to slit her throat?"

Will swallows, and his voice is softer but no less sweet; "I would. Happily."

"Time has tempered your loyalty."

" _Betrayal_ has tempered my loyalty," Will hisses, baring his teeth. He rubs at the mark on his neck again, across his clean jaw, and then up and under his nose. His eyes are fixed on some point over Hannibal's shoulder, unmoving. "She almost destroyed everything. She turned you against me."

"You don't believe that," Hannibal counters. "Otherwise, why would you be here?"

Will is silent for a moment, long enough for Hannibal to finish his plate and turn his attention to the wine. It was a fine meal, nothing Hannibal would write home about but a promising start. He wants to teach Will to cook. He wants to do a lot of things to and with Will.

Will sucks in a shaky breath and his eyes are bright with tears that have yet to be shed. Hannibal wants to feel them on his fingertips, lick them from his cheeks. "I had to," he says. He presses his lips together and puts his hand to his stomach. Hannibal's eyes follow the motion.

"I had to know what happened to you. I don't know who I am without you there."

"'S' existed long before I did," Hannibal replies.

Will shakes his head.

"What do you want to happen here, Will?" Hannibal asks, and spreads his hands out in an open gesture. "How does this conversation end for you?"

Will breathes deep, trembling, and he raises his eyes to meet Hannibal's. He doesn't flinch like his Will-suit did, doesn't challenge him like Charles or even try to appease him like Peter. Hannibal regards Will and sees an open, honest man. The face of a man who is in love.

When he does not answer – or perhaps he cannot – Hannibal sighs and shifts his weight, folding one leg over the other and resting his laced fingers on his knee. Will watches him do it with something like hunger. "You admit to your betrayal and justify it by claiming that it was a necessity – that, for your final evolution, no one could know your designs. Even me."

Will presses his lips together and looks down. "Your anger made you slaughter Peter," he says. "And you killed Jack. I couldn't do that. _Will_ couldn't do that."

"Because of loyalty."

Will nods. "If I killed Jack, that would have been the end. If _you_ did, I knew you would be okay. And then you tried to kill me, meaning any love we had for each other would have been broken in the eyes of outsiders. There was no reason for me to chase you. I retired with a soldier's wounds and the Ripper became legend."

"You gave me a legacy," Hannibal murmurs.

Will's lips twitch at the corners. He sees how Hannibal's eyes have settled on his stomach. "Would you like me to show you?" he asks, just as pretty and brazen as Peter had been the first time he met. Hannibal swallows and Will stands, pulling his sweater and his shirt over his head.

The garments settle back on the chair and Hannibal's breath catches when he sees Will's bare chest. He's as beautiful as Hannibal remembers – maybe even more so. Living with Margot Verger, not as her pet but as her companion, has erased the bruises and welts from his body. He is unblemished and clean.

 _Except_.

There is a deep, dark line across his stomach, put there by the meat hook Hannibal used to gut him. It's the same reddish-brown of old brick clay. Hannibal's fingers curl – he wants to touch.

Will hums and steps close to him and takes one of his hands, pressing it over the scar. "You set me free by doing this, Hannibal," he whispers. Hannibal looks up and meets his eyes. "And because I was free, I had a choice to make. And I chose you."

He takes Hannibal's other hand and presses it over his heart, where his second scar lingers. The 'S' that Hannibal carved into his skin starts below his collarbone, circles out to his sternum, coils across his pectoral muscle and ends at the bottom of his left nipple. It's a deep, angry-looking scar – not surgical and precise like Hannibal made sure the gutting cut was. With this, Hannibal had let Will feel his anger, his betrayal. With this mark, he knows it hurt even half-unconscious, as Will had been at the time.

"If you run from me, I will chase you," Will says, and he lets go of Hannibal's hands and they don't move. Will cups his face, as tenderly as a mother with her child. The tears in his eyes have been beaten back but his eyes are red at the edges and shine as though lit from behind. "If you hunt me, I will be your willing prey. As long as I'm with you."

And Hannibal cannot see a single flicker of deception in him. He feels Will's heartbeat, steady and fast, as eager to leap into Hannibal's touch as the rest of him is.

Then again, he hadn't sensed Will's plan before, either.

"Why did you let Jack die?" he asks.

Will blinks, sighs, closes his eyes and leans their foreheads together. "Because I wanted to," he replies. Then he whines, fingers tightening on Hannibal's jaw, still so gentle, but more desperate now. "Hannibal -."

"Do you think I would forgive you?" Hannibal asks, for even though he granted Will his forgiveness on that fateful night, time and loneliness has soured the edges of the wound, poured salt and vinegar on him so that he has been marinated in his own misery.

Will lets out a soft, needy sound. "Yes," he replies. "If I begged."

Hannibal smiles, and lets his hands move from Will's scars to his hair. He fists one hand in those lovely curls and cups Will's throat, brushing his thumb over the bite scar on his neck. "You wouldn't beg for me before," he says.

Will licks his lips, jaws parting, his throat flexing under Hannibal's hand as he swallows. His eyes are open, meeting Hannibal's gaze readily. "I won't beg for something I already have," he says. His hands rest on the armrests of Hannibal's chair and curl tight. "I had your love and your mercy in my stomach."

"Was that before or after I sliced you open?"

Will laughs, soft and full of joy. "I love you," he says, and cups Hannibal's cheek again with one hand. He steps forward and comes to a halt, one of his knees between Hannibal's legs. Hannibal slides forward and embraces him, letting go of his neck to wrap his arm around Will's lower back and Will sinks against him with a sigh.

Hannibal smiles. "And I love you, dear Will," he replies, and Will's breath escapes him in something shaky and desperate. He bites his lower lip and touches Hannibal's neck, and Hannibal lifts his head to claim Will's mouth in a kiss.

As hopelessly romantic as it sounds, he feels like Will's kiss heals him. There was a hole in his heart the size of Will's body, a wicked cut across it in the shape of his smile. Will touches him and kisses him like he's a starving man – but not quite starving. Hungry. He does not kiss Hannibal with desperation, but rather relief, like he's finally been satisfied. And Hannibal can feel the difference in it.

Will does not kiss him with a frantic need, like Hannibal can give him everything and it will never be enough. Rather, his kiss holds a promise; _You are all I want, and I will split myself open to give you everything in return._

"I take you as you are," Will gasps when they pull back. Their foreheads touch, noses brushing, and it's so astoundingly intimate that Hannibal, for yet another time, is struck silent. "Will you take me?"

Hannibal smiles, and drags his nails across the 'S' on Will's chest. "Yes," he says, and cups Will's scarred stomach, and Will closes his eyes and heaves a sigh that sounds like coming home.

~

Will stands, regarding the assembly before them. Hannibal stands next to him, admiring the slick shine of blood on the ground, the way the torso gleams like it might still be alive. It is the torso of a woman – simply for convenience. She had, after all, been right there, ready for the slaughter.

It stands on a tripod of swords., tilted up. Will hums. "The reversed Three of Swords," he says quietly. The acoustics in the church are terrible for silence, but even still Hannibal struggles to hear him. They watch the forensic analysts, the packed-in worshippers for Ash Wednesday, and the police as they try and push everyone back.

"Symbolic of recovering from a deep heartbreak," Hannibal murmurs.

Will sucks in a soft breath. "I regret hurting you so," he murmurs, and turns his head to meet Hannibal's gaze. "But I feel so close to you, here. You left me your broken heart, and I gave you my broken body."

Hannibal smiles. "I knew you'd come for me, if you survived," he says. "I missed you dearly."

"I would have followed you," Will says, turning to face him fully. "If you had refused me, if you had insisted we leave that night. I would have followed you."

"Hindsight always lends us clarity."

Will's expression darkens and he sighs, looking down. "Where would we have gone?" he asks. "Here?"

"I had made a place for you."

Will shakes his head, his sorrow sagging his shoulders. "Not for me. For 'S', or maybe Peter."

"They were always one and the same for me."

Will looks up, sad yet hopeful, and Hannibal smiles and cups his face, drawing him in for a kiss.

"There's no one left," Will says. "No Jack. No Margot. No Bedelia, or Freddie. No Charles or Peter or 'S' or Mason."

Hannibal smiles. "You were never a consolation prize for me, Will," he says, and Will bites his lower lip, his fingers curling in Hannibal's coat. Hannibal looks back down, to the flayed and fractured body of Bedelia, and he sighs quietly.

"Where will we go now?" he asks.

"I would have loved to show you Florence, but that can wait," Hannibal replies. He will return, one day, and show Will all the lovely places full of angels and gold.

"I don't think I will want for anything again," Will breathes, tugging Hannibal closer.

Hannibal hums, and turns his gaze to look at Will again. "I think, if I saw you every day forever, Will, I would remember this time."

Will smiles. "When we were apart, when I was in my hospital bed, and then with Margot, I looked up at the night sky there. Orion above the horizon and, near it, Jupiter. I wondered if you could see it, too. I wondered if our stars were the same."

"I believe some of our stars will always be the same. You entered the foyer of my mind and stumbled down the hall of my beginnings."

"I wanted to understand you before I laid eyes on you again. I needed it to be clear what I was seeing."

"Where does the difference between the past and the future come from?"

"Mine?" Will smiles and lifts his mouth for another chaste kiss. "Before and after you. Yours? It's all starting to blur. You and I have begun to blur."

Hannibal smiles. "Does that distress you?"

"I have free will now. But I also feel as if I don't have it. I have no suits to don, no client to impress or service. There is only you, and I give myself to you freely. Even as the possibility of free will dissipates, my experience of it remains the same. I continue to feel and act as though I have it."

"The worm that destroys you is the temptation to agree with your critics, to get their approval."

"I feel as though every crime of yours is one of mine. And every one of mine is yours in return."

"You wish to be free of me? Freeing yourself from me and me freeing myself from you, they're the same."

Will tilts his head to one side when Hannibal lifts his hand, and turns his cheek into Hannibal's palm. He smiles. "We're conjoined. I'm curious if either of us can survive separation."

Hannibal laughs. "And now's the hardest test, my darling: not letting rage and frustration, nor forgiveness, keep you from thinking."

He kisses Will one more time, and steps back. The crowd is starting to disperse and the police are clearing the upper levels, making sure the civilians are gone before they start to analyze the crime scene.

Hannibal takes Will's hand and laces their fingers together. "Shall we?"

Will smiles, and nods. "After you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we've reached the end of this song. Thank you guys for joining me on the ride. Feel free to hit me up on Tumblr, and if you liked this story I have two others in the Hannibal fandom you should check out (:
> 
> Happy hunting!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't resist writing a little epilogue. Hope you guys like it!

_And then I saw your brown eyes and your smile, ooh there you were._  
Who would have known that I could be so happy now?  
Who would have known that you would take my hand and say, "Let it go.  
Release yourself today. Being here with you, I wouldn't have it any other way.  
I know you're scared, but I'll be the rock to help you stand. All you gotta do is take my hand."

Take My Hand – Kayley Manarchuck

~

Looking back on it, Hannibal is surprised that this didn't become an issue sooner.

It happens in France. After Will joins him and they made a spectacle of Bedelia's torso in the Palermo on Ash Wednesday, they'd packed up and moved to Paris. Hannibal easily finds them accommodation and takes a job as an event coordinator at Versailles. Though Paris does not hold the love that Hannibal has for Florence, he is familiar with it from his time in college, and falls into place easily amidst cultural peers.

Will follows suit admirably. Gone is the squirrelly lack of assuredness that had so plagued him during his time in America. He does not find employment of his own, telling Hannibal that his medical discharge from the FBI and his sizeable funds from his clients will be more than enough when combined with Hannibal's wealth and salary.

They purchase an apartment in a Haussmanian building that has a view of the Eiffel tower, broad windows, white walls and wooden floors. A lovely blend of modern style combined with the older aesthetic of the outside of the building. It is an intimate space, and comes fully furnished per Hannibal's request, though he spends most of the first month refurbishing one of the rooms so that they might build a library similar to the one he had in Baltimore.

Will spends most days when Hannibal is out left to his own devices. He wanders, familiarizes himself with the city, and yet is always home to greet Hannibal with a glass of wine and a kiss, even when the hour grows late.

There's an event being held for the employees at Versailles, a rented-out ballroom near the river in a lavish hotel. Hannibal watches as Will dances with one of the managers at the Palace, and cannot help feel, at times, that he is not looking at Will at all.

Perhaps it had been naïve of him, to think that after ridding Will of all his person suits, he would feel no need to create more. That Hannibal would be enough for him. But, conversely, he _had_ promised as much. Hannibal had never thought to shed any further light on the subject.

Hannibal sighs, taking another sip of his glass of champagne. The waltz ends, and Will finishes his dance, takes the woman – Anna – by the hand and kisses her knuckles in a well-practiced move like from a movie. Hannibal watches, watches and tightens his fingers around the stem of his glass as Anna presses close to Will and whispers something in his ear. It makes Will laugh, and Hannibal had never thought of himself as a particularly jealous person, but his vision turns dark when he sees the shine of her diamond-wrapped wrist, as her hand settles intimately on Will's suit jacket lapel.

Will pulls back, meets Hannibal's eyes, and says something else to Anna. She turns, her gaze bright, the jewels and gold in her brown hair catching the light, and she approaches Hannibal. Hannibal loses sight of Will in the crowd.

"Monsieur Talbot," she says, addressing Hannibal by the name he'd chosen for himself when they'd moved here. She continues in French; "I can't believe you were hiding your friend away all this time! He's delightful."

"An opinion shared by many," Hannibal replies, forcing himself to smile. His eyes fall to her exposed neck, the blue of her veins along her throat, and he nods at her when she smiles, showing all of her teeth.

"You shall have to bring him more often," Anna says brightly. She reminds Hannibal of Missus Komeda, with her too-wide lips and her purposely opulent choice of dress. She's ringed all in gold, flashy and eye-catching as a macaw.

"I don't think I'd be able to stop him," Hannibal replies.

"Stop who?"

Hannibal turns, just far enough to catch Will's presence at his shoulder. He's holding two glasses of champagne and holds one out to Anna with another kind smile and nod. She takes it with a demure look, eyes dipping down, flirtatious. Hannibal's fingers curl ever-tighter at his side.

"I was just telling Jean," Anna begins, gesturing to Hannibal, "how it's a shame you have never joined us at these events before."

Will laughs. "Well," he replies, his voice quiet as he replies to her in French; "I confess I don't much care for parties. But I couldn't refuse my husband any longer."

At that, his free hand settles on Hannibal's shoulder, and whether it's meant to be placative towards Hannibal, or possessive, Hannibal cannot quite tell, but he quite likes the challenging light in Will's eyes, as well as the surprise in Anna's when hers widen.

"Oh! Forgive me!" she says, touching her fingertips to her mouth. "I assumed."

Will smiles. His accent is very subtly off, giving him away as neither a native French speaker, nor European, but Hannibal is merely still processing the fact that he's fluent in French at all. He had no idea. He turns to Will, and sees Will smiling at him, gentle and adoring, and Will's hand slides down Hannibal's shoulder to settle at the small of his back, and he slides closer, standing as Charles once did with Tobias.

"It's quite alright," Will replies with a gracious nod.

Anna hums, lifting her chin and trying to hide her lingering embarrassment behind a sip of champagne. "Well, you'd better keep an eye on him then, Jean," she says with a wink to Hannibal. "Someone might come and snatch him away if you're not careful."

Hannibal's eyebrows rise, and he spends an idle moment thinking about what, exactly, he would do to anyone who tried.

Will's smile, when Hannibal looks to him, is sharp, like he's thinking the same thing. Then he leans in close and rests his lips at Hannibal's ear. "My love," he says, loud enough to be heard but low enough that Hannibal's shoulders tighten, and a small shiver runs down his spine. "Perhaps you could show me where the restrooms are?"

"Of course," Hannibal replies hoarsely, and sets his half-empty glass on a tray as a server passes. Will follows suit, and takes Hannibal's hand in his, their fingers lacing. Hannibal tries to keep his touch gentle, for Will has not done anything expressly wrong and worthy of his wrath, but his knuckles are white when he kisses the back of Will's hand. "Follow me."

They part from Anna with another series of polite nods and smiles, and leave the main room, skirting the edges of the ballroom, past the coat check and the reception, and down a hall lined with gold, the floor covered in a thick carpet of royal blues and black.

They don't go to the bathrooms. Perhaps Will senses Hannibal's mood, or maybe he is working on desires all his own, but they pass the sign for the doors to the restrooms and onward, down the hallway until its end, where there's a sign for a conference room, and a closed door. They open and pass through it, into a room that is dark save for the street lights casting their golden glow through the parted curtains. There's a large desk lined with chairs inside, a podium for a speaker, but nothing else.

Will sighs, dropping his hands and then rubbing them over the back of his neck. His fingers trace the edge of Hannibal's bite mark, that he gave to Peter what seems like a lifetime ago, and goes to the window, staring out.

Hannibal watches him do it, remaining near the end of the table, his eyes greedy on the slope of Will's shoulders in his expensive dark suit, the fine cut hinting at his lovely body without giving much away.

"I didn't know you spoke French," he says, after a moment.

Will tilts his head, his eyes shining, and regards Hannibal from the corner of them. He lifts one shoulder, lips pursed, and sighs. "Immersion," he offers as explanation. "I learn fast."

"Indeed," Hannibal says.

"Are you angry with me?" Will murmurs.

Hannibal sighs, releasing his irritation like a stray bird, and goes to Will. His hands settle gently on Will's hips, not grabbing, not pulling, and he's pleased when Will leans into him anyway, head tilted to expose his neck.

"Not angry, my darling," Hannibal whispers, watching goosebumps break out on Will's skin. He kisses his warm flesh, breathes in deeply the scent of pastry and wine that clings to Will like a glaze ever since they moved here. "Merely…concerned."

Will breathes out, licking his lips, and lifts a hand to gently cup Hannibal's face. His head turns, and he kisses feather-light at the side of Hannibal's chin. "I didn't mean to," he confesses. "It was a momentary lapse, nothing more."

Hannibal hums. "Are you bored?"

"No!" Will says, vehement and shocked. He turns in Hannibal's arms, fingers resting, curled, on Hannibal's shoulders. When Hannibal meets his eyes, they're silhouetted, robbed of light, but sincere. "No," he says again. "I swear."

"Then what is this?" Hannibal presses, and with the words, he physically pushes at Will as well, crowds him against the wall by one thick curtain, pulled back. His knuckles brush the knot of tassel keeping the curtain at bay and Will trembles against him.

Will whines, leaning in so their noses brush. His exhale is sweet with champagne, his hands warm as they slide up Hannibal's shoulders and cup the back of his neck.

"I feel…stale," Will finally says, when Hannibal does not allow his kiss. "I haven't changed my person suit in months and I don't -."

He stops, swallows harsh enough that Hannibal hears his throat click.

"I love you," he finishes, breathes it like a vow. "I love you, and every part of me wants you all the time, and yet I feel like I'm trying to reach for you with limbs I no longer have. I feel amputated. Cut to pieces."

Hannibal hums, resting their foreheads together. He allows himself a smile, and lets go of Will's hip with one hand to gently brush along his jaw, slide down to the raised scar in the shape of his own teeth. "All this time, you were worried that I would tire of you. I don't think it occurred to either of us that you might grow restless yourself."

Will swallows again. His shame coats him like a physical thing, and Hannibal can feel it where his hand is against Will's neck.

"How can I help you, darling?"

Will lets out a soft, frustrated sound, bares his teeth and meets Hannibal's eyes when Hannibal pulls back. "I don't know if you can," he says. "When my hands grew idle, Bedelia found new toys for me to play with. Without her, I don't know what's…safe. And I don't want to do what I did before. I'm tired of being a canvas, but it's all I know how to do."

Hannibal nods, considering that. "You call this a momentary lapse," he says. Will nods. "Tell me."

"Anna wants someone to fawn over her," Will murmurs. "To tell her she's pretty and fall to their knees, to worship her. I know how to treat that."

Hannibal tilts his head to one side, and makes sure he can see Will's eyes when he asks; "Is this the first? Since we came here?"

"Yes," Will breathes. "I swear."

Hannibal smiles. He slides his hand up into Will's hair, fists tightly at the base of his skull, and draws Will in for a kiss. The action must surprise him, for he gasps, but recovers quickly, arching against Hannibal's chest with a desperation Hannibal knows well.

"There is nothing to forgive," he says, when he forces their mouths to part. Will whines, his hands clawing at Hannibal like he aches. "I have kept you collared and restrained, which I promised never to do. You deserve to be as free as you wish to be."

Will is silent, his breathing loud in the intimate air between them. His eyes are shining, so much love in them that Hannibal is still overwhelmed by it, even now. He kisses Will again, spreads his hands out wide on Will's flanks, and drinks in the soft, pleading noise from Will's sweet mouth.

"Let's see what we can find you in the way of entertainment."

~

Will is breathing heavily, soaked to the bone in blood, his hair damp with sweat and his eyes, _oh his eyes_ , they burn with centuries of fire. His hands shake from time spent too-idle, grip a knife that cuts both with passion and fervor, cruel and precise because he knows Hannibal would expect no less.

Hannibal remembers, a lifetime ago, Will saying that 'S' would not dare try and appeal to the Ripper through a kill. That it would be comparing Botticelli to stick figures. But as he gazes upon Will's offering, Hannibal's chest is tight and warm with adoration.

He circles Anna's body, sees the way her hands are splayed wide, her chest cut open, her throat slashed. She kneels, a supplicant to a King, her heart and lungs removed for their feast later. Her mouth is cracked open wide, split too-far apart like the jaws of a snake, like she's stuck in a permanent song of praise to a lord that will never look down upon her with favor.

Will's exhale is ragged, he meets Hannibal's eyes and drops his knife, falls to his knees as Hannibal approaches him and keeps his head tilted up, neck exposed when Hannibal cups his face and draws him up to his feet again.

"Beautiful," he whispers, and Will smiles, shakily. He does not touch, knowing better than to stain Hannibal's clothes with blood. His eyes shine, brilliant in lamplight, satisfied to the bone. "You're beautiful, Will. How do you feel?"

Will swallows. There's blood on his lips. He couldn't resist kissing her heart, blessing it with his touch before it is displayed on Hannibal's table. "I feel…alive," he says. He laughs, trembling, and licks his lips.

Hannibal smiles, eyes dropping to the motion. He does not kiss, not yet. "You can make yourself into whoever you want to be," he says, touching their foreheads together. Will's entire body curls towards him, not touching for the sake of contamination, but the air between them vibrates, turns heated. "Craft your suit, find your prey, and lure them to me. If that's what you want."

"I can hunt with you?" Will asks, as if what they just did doesn't count. He supposes, to Will, it doesn't. Hannibal didn't, after all, have much influence on this particular piece of art.

His smile widens, and he nods, and Will closes his eyes, lets out a breath that sounds like relief. "I want that," he whispers. "I want to do that. Teach me. Show me everything."

Hannibal nods, and pulls Will down to kiss his forehead tenderly. "I will, darling," he whispers, and Will trembles and sighs, so relieved, so in love. "I promise."


End file.
